The Start Of The Line
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: Steve and Bucky are with each other till the end of the line. Every line has a starting point, and this is theirs. A collection of shorts and drabbles from schoolyard to battlefield, in roughly chronological order. Friendship and bromance — no Stucky.
1. The New Kid

_1\. The New Kid_

Steve Rogers' heart fluttered in his chest as he followed the teacher down the corridor. His sweaty hands clasped his brown paper lunch bag firmly; it stopped them from shaking. First day of a new school was always like this, and Brooklyn Elementary School would be his third school in as many years. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he'd make lots of friends here. Maybe he'd find kids he could relate to. Maybe he'd even be popular.

 _And pigs might fly_ , he told himself. His Uncle Gerald's favourite saying. He came out with it whenever Steve insisted he was gonna grow up to be a soldier in the army, just like his dad. One day, Steve was gonna show Uncle Gerald them flying pigs. Mom said Steve's dad had been the same, at Steve's age. He'd been all skin and bones, then had a growth spurt in his teens. Steve couldn't wait to reach his teens and get his growth spurt.

The teacher turned her head to look down at him. The smile she offered seemed encouraging; did she see how terrified he was? Did she read the open book of fear in his eyes, and see his hands shaking despite the paper bag he clutched?

"I think you're going to like it here, Steven," she said.

Steve merely nodded. She'd introduced herself as Mrs. Montgomery, then asked where his mom was. But Steve had learnt from his past mistakes. Last time he had first day at a new school, his mom insisted on coming with him, which had earned him the moniker 'mommy's boy.' This time, he'd convinced her to let him get off the streetcar alone, at the stop around the corner from the school. Looking back to wave goodbye, he'd felt a stab of guilt in his stomach over the concern in her eyes… but it was better this way. Today he'd walked into the playground alone, with his head held high. He would not be 'mommy's boy' anymore.

A dozen butterflies flapped around inside his chest, and he took several deep breaths. It had been weeks since his last asthma attack, but anxiety was the most common trigger. Today, he had a lot to be anxious about. In mere moments, he'd be up in front of his new classmates. Possibly making new friends. Probably getting new nicknames.

 _Positive thinking, Steve!_ the memory of his mom's words echoed around his head. _You_ _'re going to have a great day at school. I can feel it in my toes._

The scent of disinfectant assaulted his nose. Schools always smelt the same. That was one thing that never changed, and Steve hated it. Two schools ago, one of the meaner kids had found the janitor's mop and bucket, and had upended the dirty water over Steve's head. Steve had smelt like disinfectant for the rest of the day, and the new clothes his mom had bought him had been ruined.

One day, pigs would fly, and then nobody would pour dirty water over his head ever again.

"Here we are," Mrs. Montgomery said, halting outside a classroom with the alphanumeric _4E_ emblazoned on the frosted glass window. "Are you ready?"

Steve nodded, and the teacher opened the door. He took a deep breath… and sneezed loudly several times as the smell of disinfectant tickled his sinuses. Even as Mrs Montgomery was beckoning him into the room, he was reaching into his pocket for his oft-used handkerchief.

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky Barnes laughed as his paper airplane sailed over the heads of a half-dozen fourth-years, on course for Davey Tarbuck's waiting hands. Two girls shrieked as they ducked the plane that was way above their heads, and Bucky rolled his eyes; girls were dead soft about stuff like that. Most of them were no fun at all.

A meaty fist suddenly sprang up to pluck the plane from the air, crushing its paper wings between fingers. "Oops, looks like I broke your plane, Barnes," sneered Danny Cavanagh. He held the damaged plane above Davey's head. "C'mon, Fatty Tarbuck—let's see how high you can jump!"

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, his chair scraping along the floor behind him as he stood. "Give it back, Cavanagh!"

" _Give it back, Cavanagh,_ _'_ " the other boy mocked. "Maybe I will, when Fatty tries to jump for it. Entertainment for the whole class."

A scowl stole across Bucky's face. A few students, who thought there might be some entertainment in seeing Davey Tarbuck try to jump, tuned in to the conflict. Most of the class ignored it, and carried on talking.

"Give it back, or I'll knock your block off," Bucky threatened.

"Hahahaha!" Cavanagh laughed in his face. "I'd like to see you try."

The door handle squeaked, and Bucky swiftly sank down into his chair. Mrs. Montgomery was an old battle-axe; she didn't brook unruly behaviour. The rest of the class fell to silence, turning quickly to face the front of the room. Danny Cavanagh was too slow; as the teacher strode through the door, she caught sight of Cavanagh halfway back to his chair, and with the paper plane still crushed in his fist.

"Mr. Cavanagh, you can spend your lunch time dusting the chalkboards," she said, fixing her _pince-nez_ into place. "And please put that item in the trash can, thank you."

Cavanagh shot a hate-filled glare at Bucky as he resumed his seat, and Bucky spent a moment basking in smug. Cavanagh was a jerk, and it was always a riot to see his meanness backfire.

"Class," Mrs. Montgomery, "there is somebody I would like to introduce to you. This is Steven Rogers."

She gestured for somebody outside the door. Craning his head like the rest of the class, Bucky saw a new kid standing there, clutching a brown paper back in one hand, and a grey handkerchief in the other. The boy stepped forward, his watery blue eyes darting here and there as if looking for some place to hide. His brown jacket hung awkwardly from his bony shoulders, clearly made for someone several years older—or larger. The boy's mop of blond hair was a little messed up, as if it had been blown around by the wind, and then not combed down again after.

"Steven has just transferred from Ryder Elementary," Mrs. Montgomery explained. "Please say hello to him, and make him feel welcome."

"Hello, Steven," Bucky intoned with his classmates, their greeting a rote monotone.

Steven cleared his throat, and said, "Umm… hello." He seemed to realise he was still holding his kerchief, and quickly shoved it back into his pocket. One of the girls in the front row giggled.

"Please take a seat at an empty desk, Steven, and then we can get started with today's lessons."

All eyes followed Steven as he walked up the aisle of desks, to one of those that had been spare for as long as Bucky could remember. The boy aimed a small smile at the kid who had the desk behind him; unfortunately, it was Cavanagh. As Mrs. Montgomery picked up the history lesson with a discussion on Abraham Lincoln, Bucky heard the unmistakable sound of spit-balls being fired from behind.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: These short pieces are canon for my other two stories,_ Running To You _, and_ We Were Soldiers _. I wanted to work on/establish some childhood history for Steve/Bucky without it intruding too much into my fics that actually have narrative purpose. There will be some overlap: established memories from_ Running To You _will undoubtedly end up here, and in turn I may incorporate some of what_ _'s here into_ We Were Soldiers. _However, these drabbles/events can be read as a stand-alone fic as well._


	2. The Outcast

_2\. The Outcast_

The cacophony of riotous sound enveloped the cafeteria, filling it from the floor to the rafters. Bucky and his friends, who had a table in the centre of the room, added their own laughs and calls to the symphony.

Davey's contribution was a loud groan when he opened his lunch bag and found it filled with fruit. "Not apples again!" His expression of longing only deepened when he saw the cake Mitch's mom had baked for him. "Hey, Mitch, I'll give you two apples for half that cake."

"Not a chance," Mitch grinned. And just to prove there really was no chance of a trade, he took the cake out of its waxed paper and licked the length of it. Everyone else at the table wrinkled their noses.

Suddenly, a loud _CRASH_ punctuated the cafeteria's song. For the length of a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, an uproarious laugh erupted.

Looking around for the source of the noise, Bucky saw a kid sprawled on the floor, a few chairs toppled around him… right in front of Danny Cavanagh's outstretched leg.

"Better watch where you're walking, shrimp," Cavanagh laughed.

The boy on the floor looked up, red-cheeked with an angry scowl, and Bucky realised it was the new kid. Stuart? Simon? Something like that. It had been almost a week since the boy had been introduced to the class, and Bucky hadn't thought twice about him since then.

He'd hated Cavanagh with a passion ever since the jerk had made Mitch cry, on their first day of school. Pushed poor Mitch into the sandbox, and rubbed his face into the rough sand. _A sand sandwich,_ he'd called it, thinking he was funny. But he wasn't funny; he was just a bully.

Bucky opened his mouth, to call out to Cavanagh that he ought to stop being such a dumb jerk, but a soft tug on his shirt sleeve stopped him. He looked down into a pair of blue eyes which threatened to spill tears at any moment.

"Bucky, I can't find my Tootsie roll," Mary-Ann whimpered quietly. Bucky's seven year old sister held her empty lunch bag in her hands, evidence that the Tootsie roll was missing.

"Here, have mine," he said, delving into his own bag and handing the sweet treat over.

"Thank you!" she smiled. The wrapper was off in a second, and she shoved the Tootsie roll it into her mouth before he could change his mind.

Another pair of eyes watched the exchange. Tyler's younger brother, Johnny, was a year younger than Mary-Ann. He looked into his own lunch bag, then tugged on Tyler's sleeve.

"Ty, I can't find my Tootsie roll," he said, giving it some extra bottom lip wobble.

"That's because Mom ran out of Tootsie rolls, so now you have an orange instead," Ty explained.

Mary-Ann opened her mouth, to smile her half-eaten candy at the younger boy. His bottom lip wobble increased.

"But I want a Tootsie roll!"

"Well, you can't have one!"

Bucky, Davey and Mitch plugged their fingers into their ears. Ty's brother was the biggest whiner in the whole school, and sure enough, his piercing wail soon added to the lunchtime medley.

It took Ty a few minutes to calm his brother down, and when he did, they finally pulled their fingers out of their ears. At last, Bucky remembered Cavanagh and the new boy. He turned around, to see whether the situation had changed any, but when he looked down at the floor, the boy was already gone.

o - o - o - o - o

Steve wound his way through the cafeteria, looking for an empty seat amongst the full tables. Better yet, looking for an empty table. In his hands was a brown paper bag, the contents of his lunch still inside. Mom had offered to buy him hot lunches, but Steve suspected he'd be less of a target if he carried sandwiches instead of money.

The kids in the cafeteria were so noisy that it made his ears hurt just to be there. At every table he approached, he found empty seats had suddenly been filled, or book piles moved across to take up room in which he might place his lunch bag.

Steve could handle other kids not wanting him to sit with them. After all, he was new here, and hadn't made friends with them yet. He was used to sitting alone. But he hated the way they didn't see him. They weren't even looking at him as they made their spare seats unavailable. They just filled them up, and ignored him, pretending he didn't even exist. It didn't make him feel small; it made him feel invisible.

The world suddenly spun out of control; his foot got caught on something, and he held out his arms to try and break his fall. His lunch bag went skidding along the floor, and Steve went toppling to one side, right into a pile of chairs. For a moment, he thought he might get away with his clumsiness. The _CRASH_ of chairs followed him, haunting him all the way down, and he lay there momentarily dazed, his arms bruised by the collision of flesh and floor.

In the silence that followed, Steve's face burned hot. A chorus of laughter sang out around him; not _with_ him, but _at_ him. And suddenly, the boy who had been invisible was finally seen.

"Better watch where you're walking, shrimp," a mean voice gloated. Steve couldn't help the glare on his face as he looked up at his tormentor. The boy's name was Cavanagh, and he reminded Steve of the bully who'd tipped dirty disinfectant water over his head.

Various different comebacks sprang to mind, but as soon as his eyes fell on his lunch bag, on the floor beneath a table, he let them slide away. Bad enough that he was bruised; he didn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon with his stomach growling hungrily as well.

He crawled on his hands and knees to beneath the table, letting Cavanagh's laughs grow quieter with distance. He managed to grab his lunch bag and extricate himself from beneath the table without any further accidents, and he turned to look around the room as he cradled the bag in his arms. Nobody was paying him any attention. Now that their entertainment was over, he was invisible again. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe he could find a quiet corridor, in which to sit and eat his crushed sandwich.

Still red-faced, he slunk away.


	3. Life in boxes

_3\. Life in boxes_

Halfway up the stairs, Steve stopped to catch his breath. Reaching out with a shaky hand, he clutched the railings and tried to ignore the way his vision swam. Mom had tried her hardest to get them a ground floor apartment, but the sixth floor was the lowest she'd been able to manage. Six storeys of torturously high steps. Six floors' worth of raspy breathing and swimming vision.

Mom said he might grow out of his asthma.

When his vision stopped swimming, something pale and thin sprang into view. His arm, resting against the railing. He hated his arms; they were so small, so slender, that they looked like they might snap at the slightest breeze. Halfway up his arm was a long, purple shiner, courtesy of his lunch time fall. _Tripped and fell,_ he thought, trying out the not-quite-lie for size. _You know how clumsy I am._

Hopefully he'd grow out of his clumsiness, too.

He resumed his trek up the stairs, this time taking them at an easier pace. Every day he challenged himself by running up them. One day, maybe after his growth spurt, maybe after he'd grown right out of his asthma and his clumsiness, he'd be able to run up to the apartment without getting out of breath. Without wheezing, and spluttering, and having his vision swim.

Standing on his toes outside the apartment door, he slid the key into the lock and fumbled with it a few times. When it finally gave up objecting, he stepped inside the apartment and was assaulted by the smell of Mom's fried chicken. Mom made the best fried chicken. She'd learnt the recipe from a black woman, a servant she'd met at a friend's house, when she'd been just a girl. _Chicken_ _à_ _la Maisy,_ Mom called it. Steve wished he could have met Maisy; Mom said she'd been a real character, and stories about her were always a real hoot to listen to.

He had to dodge a few boxes on his way to the kitchen. Unpacking was slow because of Mom's night shifts at the hospital. Most of Steve's clothes were out of boxes, along with a few books, but his toys, and the majority of his books, were still hidden away in brown cardboard, waiting to be brought out into their new home. The apartment wasn't home yet. Maybe it would be, once he'd finished unpacking.

The battered old radio was plugged into the wall, balanced on a small wooden coffee table, its varnish faded in places. The radio blared out one of the hokey old songs his Mom loved to listen to. One of those she said reminded her of Steve's father.

"How was school today, honey?" Mom asked, when he peered around the door into the tiny, freshly-bleached kitchen. Inside the heavy skillet on the tiny gas cooker, chicken spat oil onto Mom's kitchen apron. Steve stepped back before it could splatter on him and burn him.

"It was fine," he said, eyeing the skillet warily. Every time he considered stepping forward to give his mom a hug, it seemed to sense his intentions and spat extra hard.

"Have you made any friends yet?" she asked.

 _Yes, loads._ The lie sounded false, even in the confines of his head. He wanted to be able to say _yes_. To look into his mom's hopeful blue eyes and not see sadness or disappointment reflected back at him. But he wasn't a very good liar. And besides, Mom always said lying was wrong. That good people didn't tell lies. Steve's dad had been a good person, and Steve wanted to be a good person, too.

"Not yet." He tried for a cheerful smile. "But it's only been a week."

He didn't see any sadness in her eyes, mostly because she took a quick step towards him and enveloped him in a hug. For one brief moment, all he saw was a cascade of long golden hair which fell into his face and tickled his nose. Then, she pulled back, and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. Steve hid his bruised arm behind his back, so she wouldn't see.

"Why don't you invite a couple of your classmates over for dinner one night?" she suggested. "You can play with some of your toys, or listen to the radio. You might find it easier to make friends out of the classroom."

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, whilst in his stomach, a hurricane of butterflies made him feel queasy at the very _thought_ of inviting people over.

"Tell you what, I have next Friday off work. Why don't I spend the day cooking you something extra special? Then you can invite a friend or two over and have a really good dinner?"

She gave him such a warm, hopeful smile, that he couldn't bring himself to tell her nobody would want to come over for dinner, even if he had someone to ask. Instead, he nodded weakly.

"Great! This chicken's gonna be a little while yet, so why don't you go tidy your room up?" she smiled.

He left her to her cooking and made his way into his bedroom. Light streamed in from beneath the too-small curtains, highlighting more boxes dumped here and there like a half-completed maze. Steve ran the maze to his bed, where a tatty old teddy bear waited, a faithful old friend. Teddy was the one and only gift Steve had from his father. Dad had left Teddy with Mom, before being shipped off to fight in Europe, nearly nine years ago. ' _Just in case I'm not back in time for the big day,'_ his father had said.

Dad hadn't been back in time for the big day. He hadn't been back for any days.

"I don't mind my bedroom being untidy," Steve said, pulling Teddy into a tight hug against his chest. "It's not like anybody but you and me are gonna be playing in here anyway."


	4. Detained

_Author's Note: Today I am being lazy. This chapter is one of Bucky's memories from 'Running To You'. For those who haven't read that fic… welcome to Bucky's memories! For those who_ have _read it… sorry! Next chapter will be lazy, too. New content will be up in chapter 6. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

 _4\. Detained_

He ran down the sidewalk, lunch bag tucked beneath his arm, and tried not to think about Mrs. Montgomery and her impatient, tapping foot. His homeroom teacher counted tardiness a cardinal sin, and gave only a minute's grace period before taking role. Behind him, Mary-Ann was gasping for air as she tried to keep up on her shorter legs; her homeroom teacher had been known to reminisce about the good old days before paddling was banned in the city, and his students often went to bed having nightmares about what fate would await them if corporal punishment was ever brought back. _'Spare the lashings, spoil the child,'_ he said. No wonder he was the most hated teacher in school.

"Bucky, wait, I can't run any faster!" his sister panted.

He slowed to take her hand, then pulled her along the pavement. As they reached the street corner, he heard the school bell ring and suppressed the groan that tried to escape his lips. With a quick check of the road, they crossed the street and dashed into the playground just as the last of the students were filing in through the main doors.

The sound of rattling chains caught Bucky's attention, and he saw two boys, Sammy and Danny Cavanagh, advance on another kid they'd just pushed into one of the playground swings. Bucky hesitated. If he was quick, he might just make the grace period and avoid detention, but his dad always said it was better to do wrong for doing right than to do right by doing wrong—and that two against one wasn't a fair fight in any arena.

"Go to class," he said, pushing his sister towards the front doors.

"But—"

"Mom said you're to listen to me at school. Go, or you'll be late."

Mary-Ann cast him a worried glance as she climbed the steps, but he barely noticed it; his focus was already on the two brothers and their victim.

"Hand it over, runt," Danny said, making a grab for a brown paper bag carried by his victim. Danny was a hulking brute of a boy, but he didn't like a fair fight. The kids he picked on were invariably younger and smaller.

The other boy hugged the bag closer to his chest and gave a defiant glare. Danny leapt forward and managed to get his fingers on the bag, but the other boy struggled to hold on. The pair went tumbling onto the concrete in a scrambling melee of arms and legs. The brown paper bag, finally deciding it had had enough, tore open spilling two sandwiches, an apple and a chocolate bar onto the floor. The apple rolled towards Bucky, who scooped it up as he reached the trio.

"Hey, Cavanagh," he said, "don't you think you're fat enough already? Maybe you should start eating less, instead of stealing other people's lunches."

"Stay out of this, Barnes, it's none of your business," Danny growled from the floor. He was trying to grab the chocolate bar, but the other kid was making a decent effort at keeping him away. The second Cavanagh brother, Sammy, stepped forward and looked for a moment like he might be considering stopping Bucky… then he seemed to think better of it, and moved aside. Smaller and younger than his brother, he'd also inherited more brains. In his weaselly mind, he could clearly see an apple and a chocolate bar were not worth the effort of a sustained scuffle. Not when the school bell had already sounded.

"I'm making it my business," he replied.

Cavanagh leapt to his feet and stood facing him. For a long moment there was nothing but birdsong, and Cavanagh's whistling nose-breathing. Then, Danny gave an angry snarl and barged past him, barely giving him time to step out of the way. The two brothers trotted off to the door of the school, their victim already forgotten.

Bucky looked down at the boy who was nursing a grazed arm and a broken chocolate bar. He offered his hand; the boy eyed it warily for a moment as if expecting a trick, and finally took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. As he did, Bucky finally put a name to the pale face, slightly large nose and watery blue eyes.

"You're that new kid, right?" Bucky asked, handing over the bruised apple. "Steven Rogers?"

"Steve," the new kid corrected with a fiery scowl. "And I didn't ask for your help."

"No need to ask when jerks like the Cavanaghs are involved. Now that they know you'll put up a fight, they'll try sneaking around behind you next time. You got someone to watch your back?"

Steve lifted his chin, and it was a wonder his head didn't wobble right off his matchstick neck. "I can watch my own back."

"How? You got a mirror in that paper bag?"

"Look, James—it's James, right?"

He pulled his face. "Bucky. Not even my mom calls me James."

"Okay, Bucky, I appreciate what you did, but I can fight my own battles. I don't hide behind anyone."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "But you didn't look like you were hiding behind anything."

They missed the grace period. He knew it as soon as they stepped into the empty hall. When they reached the fourth-grade homeroom, Mrs. Montgomery gave them both a frosty glare.

"Barnes, Rogers, you've just earned yourselves an after-school session of scraping gum from underneath the tables in 7E."

Bucky groaned silently as he took his seat. No matter how many kids spent their detention sessions cleaning those desks, the seventh-graders managed to get them filthy again within twenty four hours. There was no point trying to explain what had happened to Mrs Montgomery, though. She had a saying: _'No 'buts' in my classroom except butts on seats.'_ He'd only earn himself another detention tomorrow for his trouble.


	5. Gum

_Author's Note: Another lazy-Spaceman chapter. New content appearing tomorrow! As an aside, I'll be updating my main fic, We Were Soldiers, tonight, once I've done the final proof/edit. Tune in later for Bucky's first day in England._

* * *

 _5\. Gum_

The classroom had emptied as soon as the final bell rang. Bucky and his partner-in-crime had been given buckets of warm, soapy water and metal scrapers. Chewing gum removal was a long, slow, sticky process. When the teachers had realised how much the kids hated it, they'd stopped assigning lines on the blackboard as a detention activity and given this task instead.

"You have to do this in your old school?" Bucky asked, as he began working on the front row. Steve merely shook his head. "Why'd you transfer?"

"I just moved to this area from the other side of Brooklyn. Mom thought it would be good if I had a new school, as well as a new home."

"Do you miss your friends?"

Steve shrugged. Did that mean he didn't miss them? Didn't have them? Didn't care one way or the other? The boy's reluctance to talk was vexing, because Bucky could get anyone to talk.

"Well," Bucky continued, more determined now to get his partner-in-crime talking more freely, "you'll probably like it here. As long as you don't get any more detentions. Every Friday, we get to use the baseball field over at the high school."

"You like baseball?"

"I'm gonna be the world's best pitcher, when I grow up," Bucky grinned proudly. Baseball. This was a good start. Everyone loved talking about baseball. "What's your favourite position?"

"Oh, I only like to watch. I'm not very good at playing."

"Don't you play catch with your dad?"

Steve shook his head again and attacked a blob of gum under the desk he was working on with particular vigour. "My dad died before I was born. It's just me and Mom."

 _Way to go, big-mouth._ "Oh. Sorry. Accident?"

"War. His platoon was stationed in France."

"Geez, that's crummy." A quick change of subject was in order. "What does your mom do?"

"She's a nurse." Steve's gum finally gave up the will to cling on, and he dropped it into the bucket. "What about your folks?"

"Well, my dad used to be in the army," Bucky said. "But now he's out, he runs a boxing club down town. My mom was a secretary in a law firm, but she quit to have my little brother, Charlie. He's just turned one. My sister, Mary-Ann, just started second grade."

"Must be nice, being part of a big family." There was a wistful sort of look in Steve's watery eyes. Maybe that was why he wanted to do everything alone. Maybe he was just used to it. The thought made Bucky feel kinda sorry for the boy. He couldn't imagine a life with only his mom. No Dad, no Mary-Ann, no Charlie… even thinking about it made his chest constrict.

"Yeah, I guess it is," Bucky told him. "But I can't wait until Charlie gets a bit older and stops puking everywhere." Steve laughed at the mental image. "Mom says when Charlie turns six, I can take him down to the baseball field and teach him how to play. Dad said he wants his own baseball team… he even has Mary-Ann catching when we play for practice." Suddenly, Bucky had a brilliant idea. Steve didn't have any brothers or sisters or friends, but Bucky had plenty. And Mom always said it was good to share what you had with those who had less. "Hey, why don't you come play with us at weekend? We can make you catcher and put Mary-Ann in center field."

"I told you, I'm not very good at playing."

"You can't be any worse than Mary-Ann." He looked at Steve, and could see a million excuses flickering across his face. "C'mon, you got anything better to be doing on a Saturday morning?"

"Unpacking."

"Well, what if I help you unpack? Then it's done twice as fast. Where'd you move to?" he asked, before Steve could object.

"80th Street."

"Perfect," Bucky grinned. "That's just a couple of blocks away."

"Look, it's like I said, I don't need your help—"

"I'd only be helping you so that you can help me," he countered, pleased with his twist in logic. "Baseball with four is more fun than with three."

Steve immediately threw out another protest. "Don't you have other friends you can get to play ball?"

"I guess. But Mitch's mom won't let him come down to the field without her, and Davey's so fat that he hates running and he can't catch to save his life. Ty's a pretty good batter but he has to take his little brother everywhere with him, and the kid does nothing but whine." He could see Steve teetering, so decided to take the initiative before he could object. "Great! Then it's settled. Think of it this way; if you can keep hold of a ball as well as you keep hold of your lunch bag, you'll make a great catcher one day."


	6. Taking the plunge

_6\. Taking the plunge_

The butterflies were back in Steve's stomach, bringing with them unfamiliar turmoil. He just couldn't figure James—Bucky—out. At first he suspected the outgoing boy felt sorry for him, after Cavanagh's attempt to steal his lunch. Then, he thought maybe Bucky was toying with him; pretending to care, waiting for a moment to pull some mean joke. Jabbing the barb in deeper because Steve wouldn't be expecting it.

So far, there had been no barbs. No jokes. No pity.

Bucky had kept up a steady stream of chatter whilst they worked on de-gumming the tables in 7E. He'd got Steve up to speed on all the school gossip, given him the low-down on who the best teachers were, advised him on foolproof methods of getting a hall pass, and talked constantly about baseball. And Steve _still_ couldn't figure out why.

He followed Bucky out the school's front door, and it swung closed behind him with a loud _BANG_. In the playground was a young girl, sitting on one of the swings, and she looked up at the noise. As Bucky led Steve over to her, she slid from the swing, dusted off her skirt, and picked up her school bag which she'd dumped on the ground. Close up, he could see she had the same sparkling blue-grey eyes as Bucky.

"Mary-Ann, this is Steve," Bucky said. "Steve, my little sister — Mary-Ann."

The girl flashed a smile at him and said, "Hi!"

"Hi," he returned. "Um, nice to meet you." It sounded like the right thing to say. He couldn't remember the last time a girl had said 'hi' to him. Mary-Ann might be young, and she might be Bucky's sister, but she was still a girl.

"Sorry you had to wait so long," Bucky said to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "we got detention."

"I figured," she nodded.

"Nobody gave you any hassle, did they?"

She grinned. "Nope!"

"Mary-Ann got detention once, earlier in the year," Bucky explained to Steve. The pair set off down the playground, and Steve trotted after them.

"What for?" he asked.

"I punched a boy in my class," she said, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "He was mean and kept pulling my hair."

"Mom said I shouldn't have taught Mary-Ann how to punch," Bucky said, offering a small shrug. "I wish I could'a seen the look on that kid's face."

Steve made a vague impressed sound at her accomplishment. He'd once tried punching a boy who'd pinned him up against a wall, and had only succeeded in popping three of his knuckles out of place. His hand had swollen to twice its normal size, and been black and blue—and then yellow and brown—for two weeks.

The conversation between the siblings turned to what they thought their mom might be making for dinner; the topic caused the butterflies in Steve's stomach to flap more excitedly, and his mom's words from the night before echoed around his mind. _Why don't you invite a couple of your classmates over for dinner… Friday… cooking you something extra special._

Should he ask Bucky if he wanted to come for dinner on Friday? The boy had already invited himself over to help Steve unpack on Saturday. But what if he said no? What if he thought Steve was being pushy, or clingy, or desperate? What if he turned up for dinner and hated it? What if he thought the apartment was old and messy because there were boxes everywhere and it smelt faintly of damp? What if he changed his mind about playing baseball on Saturday? Steve had never really played baseball before; not outside of gym class, anyway. And that wasn't real baseball, it was softball, and Steve had always been stuck in outfield because the coach was worried he might get hurt if the pitcher threw the ball too hard at him.

 _What if what if what if_ … The thoughts spun and whirled around his head, a tension building slowly, until it felt like they just _had_ to be released before he exploded.

"DoyouwannacomeoverfordinnerafterschoolonFriday?" he blurted out, as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. He held his breath. Then he coughed and spluttered, because his asthma didn't like it when his breath was held.

Both of Bucky's eyebrows came up. "What'd you say?"

"I, umm, I was just wondering if you want to come for dinner. On Friday. After school. My mom said I can have someone over, if I want. She's a great cook." He tried to keep his fingers still. Tried to stop them toying with the buttons on his sleeve as he waited for a response.

A wide grin split Bucky's face in two. "Good, because I love food. My mom says I'm going to eat her out of house and home someday. I gotta walk Mary-Ann home after school, but after that we could have dinner at your place."

 _Your place_. The way he said it made it sound like Steve owned the apartment. Steve liked the sound of that.

"I can walk myself home!" Mary-Ann argued, a scowl forming on her face.

Bucky smiled at his sister and gave her shoulders a tight squeeze that forced a squeak from her lips.

"I know you can. But Mom would only worry if I let you walk home alone. And when Mom worries, Dad worries, and then we get lectured for _hours_. So, I'm walking you home until you're old and wrinkly."

When Mary-Ann tried to argue the point, Steve felt his shoulders relax as the hurricane of butterflies became a gentle summer breeze. He'd managed to invite someone over for dinner, and it hadn't been too hard. All he needed to do now was make sure he didn't mess things up. Somehow, he had an unfortunate habit of saying the wrong things at the worst times.

Perhaps he'd spend the whole of Friday in silence.


	7. Home

_7\. Home_

Bucky let the front door of the house slam closed behind him, kicked off his shoes, and followed his sister into the kitchen. A miasma of delicious smells permeated the air, and his stomach growled its appreciation. He wasn't the only one looking forward to dinner; Bingo, the Irish Wolfhound cross who'd been Bucky's loyal companion since the age of five, was sitting in the kitchen, watching Mom stir a pan, his tail wagging in tandem with the movements of the spoon.

Mom looked up from her pan, an accusatory glint in her eyes. "You're late."

"I wanted Bucky to push me on the swings," Mary-Ann said, and Bucky shot a grateful smile at his sister.

"Well, go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon."

He raced Mary-Ann out the door and up the stairs. They passed Dad on the way; he stepped aside to avoid being trampled in their mad scramble, and called out for them to take the stairs sensibly. His call fell on deaf ears.

Finally settled at the dinner table, Bucky waited while his parents went through their daily routine. They asked each other how their day had been (Dad had found a promising new student at the boxing club, and Mom had tried a new recipe for sponge cake. It seemed a day for new things). They talked about what the weather might do tomorrow (Dad had heard from the man at the gas station that it would definitely rain, whilst Mr. Peterson next door had told Mom that it would be sunny all day). They talked about the economy (they both agreed it was Bad). They asked Bucky and Mary-Ann how they'd gotten on at school (Fine). After that, Dad picked up the morning's newspaper, and the conversation petered away. Bucky sprang.

"Mom, can I go over to Steve's house for dinner on Friday?"

"Steve? Steve who? I've never heard you mention Steve before."

"He's a new boy in my class at school. He started last week."

"I don't like the idea of you going over to a stranger's house."

Bucky rolled his eyes. He'd prepared for this. "He's not a stranger, Mom. His name's Steve Rogers, and he just moved from the other side of Brooklyn. He lives on East 80th Street, and his mom's a nurse. His dad died in France, in the war, and he doesn't have any friends yet. He's gonna come to the park to play baseball with us on Saturday, after I've helped him unpack. Oh, and his mom's a great cook." He aimed his most winning smile at his mother, the one that never failed to get him his own way.

"I hope she's a prolific cook," his mom snorted. "Cal?"

Bucky's dad glanced up from the cartoons section of the newspaper. "Let the boy go. If someone else is crazy enough to want to try to fill our son's belly, then I salute their bravery. And their purse."

"Fine," Mom sighed. "But I want to meet Steve's mom, at some point. And you're to be back before seven o'clock. And you mind your manners while you're over there. Remember to say 'please' and 'thank you.' I don't want other parents thinking you were dragged up wrong, rather than brought up right."

"Yes Mom," he intoned, in the most practised obedient tone he could muster. He shovelled another forkful of mashed potato into his mouth, and swallowed it along with his excitement about Friday. Hopefully Steve's mom would be as good a cook as his own.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I hope you're all having as much fun reading these little pieces as I am writing them. Thanks to every who's read, reviewed and/or favourited so far!_


	8. New Friends

_8\. New Friends_

Steve wound his way around the tables, his lunch bag clutched tightly in one hand. Everywhere he looked, vacant seats became unavailable. It was such a daily routine that he was starting to become numb to it. Kinda like the time he'd hit his thumb with a hammer, trying to fix a shelf for his mom last year. It had hurt at first, and then it had throbbed numbly. Lunch time in the cafeteria was now a throbbing numbness.

"Steve! Hey, Steve, over here!"

He looked around, sure that some other Steve was being called. But no; Bucky was standing by a table with his sister and a small group of boys, waving frantically to get Steve's attention. Just to be sure, Steve checked over his shoulder. There was definitely no other Steve behind him.

This time, he managed to dodge Cavanagh's leg. The bigger boy sneered at him, and Steve scuttled away before Cavanagh could try something else.

At the table, he found an extra chair had been dragged over and placed beside the boy at the end, a smaller kid with a snotty nose. Bucky gestured for him to sit, so he did. Habit forced him to keep his lunch bag clutched tightly, though.

"Do you know everyone?" his new friend asked. Steve shook his head, and Bucky launched into introductions. "This is Davey Tarbuck." Davey was a big boy, as tall as Bucky and three times as wide, with a pudgy face and an easy smile. "Mitchell Gray. Mitch is in the third grade. His folks are friends of my dad." Mitch was a skinny boy with a liberal sprinkling of freckles on his face. Finally, Bucky indicated a pair of blond-haired boys. "Tyler and Johnny Delaney. Ty's in our class, and Johnny's in second grade."

"Are you the boy Mary-Ann punched?" Steve asked the younger Delaney.

The kid's cheeks coloured as he scowled, and Steve mentally kicked himself. _Wrong thing. Worst time._

"No," Johnny growled. He lifted his fist and thumped it into his open hand. "I ain't got punched off no girl. If a girl punched me, I'd—" He dropped his fist and cowered beneath an icy glare from Mary-Ann. "—Laugh it off."

"You got any brothers, Steve?" Tyler asked him.

He shook his head. "Just me and my mom."

"Sometimes I wish I was an only child."

"Hey!" Johnny scowled.

"I can't wait till my brother's old enough to start school," said Bucky. "'Course, I'll probably be in junior high by then."

"My brother's fifteen," said Davey. "He's really annoying. He spends ages in the bathroom every morning, and he keeps using our dad's aftershave, even though he doesn't need to shave at all yet. And one time last year, he kissed a girl."

There was a round of exclaimed " _Ewwwww!"_ s and faces of disgust were pulled by everyone at the table.

"I don't get it," Bucky said. "Girls are boring and icky. Except Mary-Ann, of course," he added, reaching out to wrap an arm around his sister's shoulders and squeeze her tightly.

"Oh Bucky, you're so silly!" she smiled sweetly up at him. "It's boys who are boring and icky. What do you think, Steve? If you could choose between having a brother or a sister, which would you pick?"

"Umm… I dunno." He put his sandwich bag down and gave it some serious consideration. It was something he'd never thought about before. He'd known for a long time—since he was six years old—that brothers and sisters came from mommies and daddies… but he didn't have a dad, which meant he'd never have a brother or a sister of his own. "I guess I'd like to have a sister," he said at last. "Then my mom could do all the things she can't do with me, like making dresses, and teaching stitching, and stuff."

"I was gonna have a sister, once," Mitch said quietly. He picked at the ham in his sandwich for a moment. "A couple of years ago. Mom and Dad painted the spare bedroom pink and everything. Then Mom went to the hospital because she wasn't feeling well, and when she got back, she said my sister had to go stay with Grandpa in Heaven."

A bubble of deep, awkward silence enveloped the table. The rest of the students in the cafeteria carried on their noisy lunch, completely oblivious to the pocket of silence. For once in his life, Steve found himself in the unfamiliar position of pitying someone else. Mary-Ann and Johnny looked a little confused; they were probably too young to fully understand death. Death was a concept Steve had lived with all his life, since he'd been old enough to ask, ' _Why don't I have a dad?'_

Bucky cleared his throat. "So. Anyone wanna come to the harbour after school, and watch the ships come up the river?"

"Ooh, me!" said Johnny, a grin splitting his face cleanly in half. "Can we go, Ty? Can we? _Pleeeeeease!_ "

"Fine, whatever," said Ty.

"I'll come too, if we can stop for popcorn on the way," said Davey.

"Sure, we can get popcorn," Bucky shrugged. "Steve? Mitch?"

Steve hesitated. He wanted _so badly_ to go watch the ships sail up the river. Or heck, to do anything at all with the group of kids who'd let him share their dinner table. But his mom would be leaving for work almost as soon as school was over, and if Steve wasn't home, she'd worry sick about where he might be.

"I can't," he said at last. "Not without letting my mom know where I've gone. She's working a night shift today, so I gotta see her before she heads to the hospital. I don't want her to worry I might have got lost."

"My mom worries too," Mitch said, giving Steve a small smile. "She doesn't like me staying out too long. It's real annoying at times, but Dad says I have to humour her."

Steve returned the smile. It was nice to know his wasn't the only broken family. That somebody else in this school knew what it was like to have an empty hole in their lives, where a person should have been.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Girls are icky. So sayeth nine year old Bucky Barnes._


	9. Dinner For Two

_9\. Dinner For Two_

Bucky heaved out the longest, most contented sigh he'd sighed all week. A final spoonful of beans stared up at him from the plate, as if mocking his ability to stuff them into his stomach after all he'd already eaten. Well, he'd show them! Reaching out for his spoon, he scooped them up and shovelled them into his mouth, swallowing them after a few seconds of swift chewing.

Then he thought he might actually be sick.

In an instant, Mrs. Rogers was there, poised ready with the half-empty casserole dish and a large serving spoon. She'd cooked enough to serve twenty Buckys. "Would you like thirds, James?" Her cheeks dimpled with the smile she beamed down at him.

"No thanks, Mrs. Rogers, I'm completely stuffed! I've never had bacon succotash before, it was delicious."

"Well, I hope you saved room for apple pie for dessert!"

"I always have room for apple pie," he assured her.

She smiled again. She seemed a really nice lady; much nicer than Mitch's mom, who often took to using the old spit-and-polish handkerchief method of wiping her son's face at the first sign of dirt. She'd tried to wipe Bucky's face once, but he'd managed to escape her over-protective clutches.

"What about you, Steve? Would you like thirds?"

"No thanks Mom, I'm stuffed too," Steve said; almost the first thing he'd said all night. Bucky had managed to keep up the dinner-time conversation practically on his own, with occasional interjections from Mrs. Rogers.

"Alright. Why don't you two go play in your room while I wash up these dishes and wait for the pie to cook?"

"Would you like any help with the dishes, Mrs. Rogers?" Bucky asked, 'cos his mom would go berserk if she learned he hadn't offered to help wash up.

"I won't hear of it," she said, shaking the spoon at him with mock severity. "I'll shout you when the pie's ready."

"Great!" he grinned. "Apple pie is my favourite."

o - o - o - o - o

Steve led the way into his bedroom and flipped on the light switch. The pale yellow bulb illuminated the narrow bed with its stark white sheets, and several piles of cardboard boxes lined up against the bare wall. Mom always insisted on fresh sheets. Said if more people spent time washing their sheets at home, she wouldn't have to do it so much at the hospital.

"Have a seat," Steve offered, gesturing to the bed. He picked a sturdy box, and lowered himself down onto it. Meanwhile, Bucky flopped back onto the bed and let out a loud groan.

"I think I'm going to explode! Your mom's a great cook."

A smile teased up the corner of his lips. "Yeah, she is. You should try her southern-fried chicken."

"Oh Lord, I wanna try that!"

Bucky wriggled for a moment on the bed, then stuck his hand under the blanket and came out with something that had been poking into his back. He sat up, teddy bear in hand, and Steve felt a hot flush rise up his neck to blossom on his cheeks.

"Oh, that's Teddy," he said, whilst in his mind, a tiny voice yelled _shutupshutup stop talking!_ He was pretty sure only kids played with dolls and teddies, and at eight years old, he wasn't a kid anymore. "Um, it's something my dad got for me. Before he died."

Bucky merely nodded, and put the bear down on the pillow, out of the way. "My bear's called 'Benny.' I got him from Santa when I was three. He was my best friend till I was five, then I got Bingo."

A tidal wave of relief crashed through Steve's body. "Bingo?"

"My dog," the taller boy grinned. "You like dogs?"

"Uh, sure. I guess. I've never had a dog before. Our neighbour, back at the last apartment, had a dog called Peaches. A tiny little yappy thing, with horrible long fur all in its eyes. I don't think it liked me very much." Memories of the dog yapping at the milkman, and the postman, and the iceman, flickered across his mind. "I don't think it liked _anything_ much."

"Well, you'll like Bingo," Bucky said, full of confidence. "Everybody likes Bingo." He glanced around the bare room. "So. Whaddya do for fun?"

Steve shrugged. "The radio's fun to listen to, sometimes. Mostly I like reading. I brought a lot of books with me," he said, rapping his knuckles on the box beneath him. But I had to leave some of my toys and puzzles back at the old place. This apartment's a lot smaller, and mom said we both had to make sacrifices. She left a few dresses. Cried over a white one in a box for a very long time."

"Huh." Bucky fidgeted for a moment as his eyes darted once more around the room. "So… uh… maybe we should unpack your stuff tomorrow, and then take the boxes to my house."

"You want cardboard boxes?"

"Of course!" Bucky jumped up suddenly onto the bed—managing to not-explode in the process—and grinned. "How else are we gonna build our very own fort?!"

"A fort?"

"Yeah. In the back yard. We can play Cowboys and Indians. Mary-Ann and Bingo can be the Indians."

Bucky's infectious grin spread to Steve's face. Suddenly, he wanted to get everything unpacked right away. Wished he'd done it sooner. He would never have thought of turning empty boxes into a fort.

Maybe life here wouldn't be quite so lonely and boring as he'd feared.


	10. Boxes in life

_10\. Boxes in Life_

Steve reached into a box and pulled out another small stack of books. Many of them were old, their covers worn, spines faded, pages dog-eared, but he loved them. Loved how they felt in his hands, the musty smell of the aged paper as he turned the pages, and the way the words typed in their neat lines had the power to transport him to other times and places.

When illness had stopped him from playing sports with the rest of the kids at school, he'd gone to the library and read. When the pollen count had been too high for him to go walking in the park without triggering his asthma, he'd read. When loneliness had kept him wistfully looking out of his bedroom window at the gangs of kids rough-housing on the streets below, he'd read. Books had been his escape since he'd been old enough to read, their words a form of friendly and familiar magic. Books had never let him down.

"You sure got a lotta books," said Bucky, as he grabbed a bunch from the box and piled them onto a rickety shelf.

"I like reading," Steve admitted, though he didn't expand on _why_. "A lot of these belonged to my mom and dad, when they were our age."

Bucky picked up a battered old copy of _The Jungle Book._ "Yeah, I'd guessed." He put the book with the others and rolled his shoulders, making them go _crack_. "I like reading, too. I usually read a lot in winter, and when it's raining. Life's too short to be stuck indoors in the summer!" He pulled out another book— _Treasure Island_ —and opened the front cover. " _To baby Steve, 4th July 1918. Love from Mom & Dad._ You were born on Independence Day? That's so neat!"

A faint smile danced across Steve's face. "It's alright. Mom always bakes me a really great cake, and it's nice to watch the fireworks and pretend they're just for me."

"1918?" Bucky mused thoughtfully. "That means you're eight. How did you end up in fourth grade?"

"Oh. That." He felt a blush prickle at his cheeks. "A couple of years ago, at my first school, I did an aptitude test, and the results were so good, they decided to put me up by a year." He'd been so thrilled to be moved up; his mom had taken him out for ice cream sundaes to celebrate. He hadn't realised his skipping a year would cause so much resentment amongst his classmates. _Teacher's pet,_ they called him. Thought he was being singled out for special treatment. That week, he'd learnt the meaning of the word _ostracism_.

"Neat!" Bucky grinned. "You must be super clever."

Steve nodded glumly. When his classmates had learnt how clever he was, they'd copied off his answers on tests whenever the teacher wasn't looking, and one or two had demanded he do their homework for them. Refusing had resulted in getting his notes stolen and his face pushed into the sandbox.

"How many schools have you been to, anyway?" continued Bucky.

"This is my third," Steve admitted. He waited for the inevitable deluge of _why_? It was a deluge that did not come. Maybe Bucky didn't care why Steve had been to three different schools. Maybe he had already guessed. Or maybe it didn't matter to him.

"Huh." Bucky pulled a final couple of books from the box, then stood up and dusted off his shorts. "Well, looks like we're finished here. Why don't we help your mom unpack those boxes in the living room, then we can start to have some real fun?"

 _Real fun_. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that. Wasn't even sure if he'd _ever_ had it. All he knew was, he was looking forward to giving it a try.

o - o - o - o - o

Bucky stumbled down the road beneath an armful of flat cardboard boxes. Behind him, Steve and Mrs. Rogers kept pace, equally laden down with cardboard. Mom had said she wanted to meet Mrs. Rogers, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to allay some of her concerns. Besides, Mrs. Rogers could carry more boxes than Steve and Bucky combined.

He almost dropped one of the boxes as he raced up the steps to the front door of the house, but managed to catch it at the last minute. With this many boxes, their fort would be huge! Bigger than Fort Knox, probably. He had no idea how big that was, but it sounded big.

Bingo was waiting when Bucky pushed the front door open. He came bowling forward at the sight of strangers, knocking Steve over with one wag of his powerful tail, very nearly taking Mrs. Rogers down too.

"Bingo, sit!" Bucky instructed, as the huge dog began giving Steve's face a bath. "Don't worry Steve, he likes you."

"I think he's—argh—I think he's trying to eat my face!" Steve quavered from the floor.

"That's just how he makes friends." Bucky dropped his boxes so he could pull Bingo off Steve, then shouted, "Mom! We've got visitors."

His mom appeared from the kitchen, a flowery apron tied over her skirt, her arms covered with flour up to her elbows. She patted a stray strand of brown hair back into the bun at the back of her head, and seemed not to realise when she left her hair white with flour. Bucky smothered the grin that was trying to creep across his face.

"This is Steve, and Mrs. Rogers."

"Mrs. Rogers, it's a pleasure to meet you," his mom said. "Please, come in and sit down. I'll make us something to drink. And please, excuse the state of the house; if I'd known Bucky was bringing guests, I would have dusted." She scowled at Bucky, and he affected not to see it. Mom was always complaining about the house getting dusty, but Bucky never saw any of the dust she moaned so much about.

"Thank you very much!" Mrs. Rogers said, aiming a dimpling smile at Mom. "I only wish our apartment was as lovely and clean as your house; we've been living out of boxes for the past week. James has been great helping us unpack today."

Bucky rolled his eyes as his mom directed Mrs. Rogers to the living room and inundated her with questions about her apartment, and work, and other boring stuff. "C'mon, Steve," he said, grabbing a cardboard box that Bingo was having an experimental chew on, "let's get this into the back yard and make a start on our new fort." He threw his free arm around the smaller boy's shoulders. "You can think up a name for it!"

A tentative smile crept across Steve's face. "How does 'Fort Bingo' sound?"

o - o - o - o - o

Sarah Rogers placed her empty coffee cup on the protective doily on the table top, and finished the last crumbs of oatmeal cookie Mrs. Barnes had practically forced on her.

"I hope my greedy son didn't empty your cupboards out," Mrs. Barnes continued, after a sip of her own coffee. "Would you like another cookie?"

"Oh, no thank you. It was delicious, though. And James was no trouble at all. It's a pleasure to cook for someone who enjoys what I make; Steve can be a very picky eater, at times." Feeding up a child who had little interest in food was a challenge.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mrs. Barnes smiled. She had the same cheerful blue-grey eyes as her son. "Have you made any friends in the neighbourhood yet?"

She shook her head. "My job has unsocial hours, and taking care of Steve, and fixing up the apartment, takes up most of my free time right now."

A brief flicker of sympathy danced across Mrs. Barnes' eyes. "Well, I host a ladies' bridge club on Wednesday nights. We start at six-thirty, and are always on the lookout for new players. You're more than welcome to join us."

"I have to work alternative Wednesdays on night shifts, at the hospital," Sarah told her. How long had it been since she'd last enjoyed the company of adults? It seemed like a lifetime ago. It probably _was_. "But… it would be nice to join your bridge games every other week. If that's not too much of a problem for you."

"Of course it's no problem!" beamed Mrs. Barnes. "Most of the women who play are mothers, so we all have something in common. Cal takes the kids to the park or the moving pictures, to give us the house to ourselves. I'm sure Steve will love playing with the other children, or watching the movies. We all bring a little something to nibble on, too. Just something light. I handle the cookies."

They chatted for a while about small things: about the chaos of moving house, about the best way to bake fish without it drying out, about the best way to get a picky child to eat their greens. When Mrs. Barnes' youngest son—Charlie—woke with a hungry cry of complaint, Sarah decided not to overstay her welcome. She managed to make her apologies despite Mrs. Barnes' insistence that she was quite welcome to stay, and thanked the woman again for the coffee and the company.

"If you want to let Steve know you're leaving, I think he and Bucky are out in the back yard," Mrs. Barnes said, as Charlie struggled and fidgeted in her arms. _Probably teething,_ thought Sarah. She made a mental note to bring a little chamomile oil the next time she visited the house.

She found the boys in the yard, practically buried under a pile of cardboard boxes. The large, imposing dog lay not far away, in the shade of a chestnut tree, watching, in a way that seemed almost protective, the children at play.

"Steve, I'm heading back to the apartment!" she called.

"Okay Mom," he replied. "I'll be back for dinner." Then, to his new friend, "Do you think we need to make a flag for Fort Bingo?"

Steve didn't look up as she left the house, for which she was glad. She didn't want her son to see the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. For months she'd wrestled with the decision to move Steve to another new school; had lost sleep over the thought of her small, awkward son growing up friendless.

For the first time in months, she realised she'd done the right thing. For the first time since he'd been born, she didn't fear that her son would go through life feeling forever alone.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I don't know how American schools would have worked in the 1920s, but here, students with the age difference of that between Steve and Bucky in MCU canon, would not be in the same class/year/grade. However, when I was a young spaceperson, the class below mine was too large, so two of the most capable students were moved up to my class. That's how spacepeople did education, and that's what's happened with Steve._

 _Also, looking at my story stats, the number of visitors to this story has surpassed that of my main fic, 'We Were Soldiers.' I'm glad so many people are enjoying reading about Bucky and Steve as kids! I'll soon be skipping ahead, to when the BFFs are a little older (and girls are a little less icky ;-)_


	11. The Siege of Fort Bingo

_11\. The Siege of Fort Bingo_

Colonel Bucky Barnes closed one eye to peer through his telescope— _a cardboard tube_ —and let out a theatrical gasp. From the hills south of Fort Bingo came an army of bloodthirsty Indians. And at their head…

"It's Big Chief Sitting Girl, and Johnny Red Fox," he said. A shadowy grey form lurked behind them, blood-red tongue lolling from its mouth, white teeth wickedly long, tail… wagging. "And they have a pack of war-wolves!"

He lowered the telescope and peered down from the lookout tower at the worried pale faces staring up at him.

"What do they want?" asked Lieutenant Davey Tarbuck.

Bucky lifted his chin, trying to put on a brave face. "The same thing they always want. Our food, our women and our horses."

Lieutenant Tarbuck's jowls wobbled in objection. "But we don't have any food!"

"Or women," said Corporal Tyler Delaney.

"Or horses," added Colonel Steve Rogers.

"Yes, but the Indians don't know that, do they?" he snapped back. Davey had forgotten to bring the food, and they'd run out of cardboard before they could make women. "Corporal Delaney, sound the bugle to signal the cavalry!"

Tyler scowled up at him. "Why've I gotta be a Corporal? Why can't I be a Colonel, like you and Steve?"

Colonel Bucky descended the lookout tower— _the tall cardboard box they'd left open at the top_ —and squared up to Tyler, hands planted so firmly on his hips that he accidentally crushed his telescope. Didn't the corporal know that dissent in the army would only play to the Indians' advantage?

"Because it's my yard and they're Steve's boxes. If you wanna be a Colonel, you gotta contribute to the Fort. Now, sound the cavalry charge, Corporal Delaney!"

Tyler sighed and rolled his eyes, but lifted the bugle— _an old plastic toy trumpet that was only capable of playing two notes—_ to his lips and played out the signal to charge.

The charge did not come. The Indians drew closer. Colonel Bucky could see the whites of the wolf's eyes. Could see the snot running down from Johnny Red Fox's nose. Could see the crown of eagle— _pigeon_ —feathers in Big Chief Sitting Girl's hair. Their Indian war-cry was so loud that it echoed around the Fort's courtyard.

"Dangnabit, General Gray, where are you?" Colonel Bucky called out.

"I have to retie my shoelace!" Mitch called back, from the other side of the plains— _the yard_.

This did not bode well. How long could four soldiers hope to hold out against a whole tribe of Indians and their trained war-wolves? As he looked around the faces of his comrades, he knew they might not all make it. But they had to try. They couldn't give up without a fight.

He drew his sabre, and commanded, "Fire all cannons!"

The cannons were fired. The Indians cried as they were pelted by cannon-balls— _marbles_. The war-wolves ran for cover. But still, the Indians came. Johnny Red Fox fired flaming arrows— _orange-painted sticks—_ over the walls of the Fort. Big Chief Sitting Girl rammed the walls with a battering ram— _her fist_. In moments, the Indians would overcome the Fort's defences.

"Men," said Colonel Bucky, addressing the almost certainly doomed cadre of soldiers. "We have to hold the line. If this Fort falls, the war is lost, and the Indians will spread across the land in a flood of feathers and… um… war-wolves. Any moment, the enemy is gonna come through these walls, and we have to hold them back. Do you all have your swords ready?"

They drew their sabres— _wooden swords_ —and held them aloft; Steve dropped his, and blushed guiltily as he grabbed it from the floor. The time for speeches was over. The Indians breached the wall of the Fort and came pouring in with their war-wolves. The fighting was intense. Big Chief Sitting Girl and Johnny Red Fox struck Lieutenant Davey in the shins, forcing him to the ground. Colonel Steve was overpowered by the biggest war-wolf of all, and had his face promptly eaten before Colonel Bucky could come to his rescue. Corporal Tyler and Colonel Bucky tried to muster, but they were outnumbered three-to-two.

"Sorry I'm late!" General Gray called, as he led the cavalry charge atop his valiant steer— _his wooden hobby-horse_.

The arrival of the cavalry changed the tide of battle. Lieutenant Davey recovered from his terminal shin-kicking. Colonel Steve's face miraculously grew back. Colonel Bucky and Corporal Tyler drove the war-wolf out of the Fort, and the Indians retreated from the might of General Mitch and his horse.

As the sun set over the plains, the valiant defenders stood in silence, watching the retreating Indians, sending prayers of thanks to God for watching over them and getting Mitch's shoelace re-tied so quickly.

"Good work, soldiers!" said Colonel Bucky, with a nod of his head. "We showed them Indians who's in charge around here. They'll be telling tales of our deeds for years to come. And from this day forth, nothing will drive us from this—"

"Kids, there's fresh lemonade with ice in the kitchen!" Mom called.

"Ooh, lemonade," Colonel Bucky grinned. "Come on, let's go get the best glasses, before the Indians get there first."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I wish I could say this is_ _exactly_ _how the fighting will go in 'We Were Soldiers.' Every war should end with lemonade._


	12. Remember

_12\. Remember_

Steve's lungs burned as he gasped air into them. His feet, pounding along the concrete of the sidewalk, ached inside his shoes, and his legs felt rubbery, like they might turn to jello at any moment.

"C'mon Steve, c'mon Mary-Ann, we're gonna miss the streetcar!" Easy for Bucky to say; his long legs carried him effortlessly, and he didn't have an asthma demon holding him back.

"We wouldn't… miss the streetcar… if you hadn't stopped… for popovers at… the baker's," Steve gasped.

Bucky slowed to a jog for a moment, giving the others a chance to catch up. "I can't help it, I love them so much!"

"I'm running as fast as I can," Mary-Ann panted. "But I think my legs are gonna fall off."

"I can see the streetcar up ahead!" Bucky said.

He reached out to grab Mary-Ann's left hand, and Steve's right hand, and picked up the pace once more. Steve felt his legs move at a speed they'd never experienced before, and Mary-Ann let out a small shriek as she was pulled forward. Any minute now, his legs were gonna give way. He'd go sprawling, flat on his face, bust his lip open and break his nose. Any minute now…

They reached the streetcar just as the departure bell sounded, and piled on before they could miss it. Even Bucky was breathing hard as he threw three coins into the fare tray. Steve reached out a shaky hand to grasp one of the hand rails, and fought to pull air into lungs that felt like they wanted to collapse in on themselves.

 _Breathe_.

He gasped air in. It felt like sandpaper going down his throat. Made a swarm of frenetic black flecks dance across his vision. Somehow reached his lungs, and seemed to sit there for a thousand years, going stale and dry as the air in some long-forgotten tomb.

 _Breathe._

He let the air out, then took another in. This one was easier. The black flecks were smaller, less air not quite so stale in his burning lungs. Legs still felt like jelly, though.

A hand clapped his shoulder. "Y'okay, Steve?"

He nodded, not yet trusting his lungs to let him speak. Bucky used his hand to direct Steve to a seat, then plopped down beside him. Mary-Ann squeezed herself in between them.

"Whew. That was quite a race!" Bucky grinned. "You sure you're okay? You look kinda sweaty."

"I'm fine," Steve insisted, giving his friend a tight smile. Bucky was the first person he'd met who didn't treat Steve like he needed to be wrapped in swaddling. When they went to the park and played baseball, Bucky pitched like he did for anyone else. When they play-fought with their wooden swords, his blows were no weaker for Steve than they were for Ty or Davey.

"Here, this'll make it all worth it." Grinning, Bucky reached into the paper bag and handed a popover to Steve, and another to Mary-Ann. With his breath finally under control, Steve bit into the delicious treat. The taste of strawberry jelly exploded over his tongue. Bucky was right; it _was_ worth it.

"You wanna come over after school, and play in the fort?"

Steve shook his head, and swallowed his mouthful of sweet popover. "Can't. Got something to do."

"But we're gonna be doing the Alamo! Mary-Ann and Johnny are gonna be the Mexicans."

"I hate being Mexicans," Mary-Ann scowled. "Why've I always gotta be on the losing side?"

"Because you're the youngest. And you get Bingo, so that makes up for it. He can be your… uh… Mexican war-dog." Bucky turned his attention back to Steve. "You don't wanna miss the Alamo."

"I know. But I have to help my mom with something. Family stuff." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"Alright. Maybe we'll do the Alamo at weekend, then. Tonight we can do something else."

Steve gave his friend a grateful smile. The last day of June marked a full month at his new school… but it was also an important time for another reason. He wanted to tell Bucky what he had to do, but he wasn't sure the taller boy would understand. The last day of every month was a special day; the only time he got to be a part of a real family.

o - o - o - o - o

The flowers in his arms made his nose itch and his eyes water, but Steve kept his back straight and his head high as he walked beside his mom in his finest, slightly oversized suit. The groundskeeper, Old Mr. Higgins, nodded to them both as they passed; he knew them by sight. Knew exactly where they were going, and would have spent the morning making sure every blade of grass around the headstone was cut to a uniform height. That no weeds marred the pristine green grass around the grave.

Together, he and his mom walked down the path, the _crunch crunch_ of gravel underfoot the only accompaniment to their passing. All around, birds sang out from the trees, a symphony of life amongst the dead.

 _In loving memory of Joseph Steven Rogers. Devoted husband and father. September 25th, 1895 – May 8th, 1918. Always in our thoughts, forever in our hearts._

The epitaph greeted Steve's eyes, and he read it again as he always did. For a long moment he stood there, drinking in the words, letting them drown out the cheerful birdsong and the quiet _crunch crunch_ of passing mourners. The whole world came crashing down, until nothing was left except Mom, and Dad, and Steve.

He stepped forward and lowered the flowers onto the ground in front of the headstone. He didn't have names for the flowers, but they were beautiful, a rainbow of colour that punctuated the perfect green grass.

"Hi Dad," he said, kneeling down beside the flowers. He reached out a hand, to trace the carved letters with his fingertips. He liked to feel the stone against his skin. Mom had told him that Dad was in those words, and this was the closest Steve could ever get to being with his dad. "It's me. Steve. Obviously."

He glanced up at his mom, and she took a few steps away, to give him a little privacy.

"So. I guess a lot's happened since we last came to visit," he began. "I told you I was starting a new school, didn't I? Well, I did, and so far it's pretty nice. The teachers are strict, and I got detention once, but I'm doing my best to learn lots and make you proud. Mom told me how clever you were at school, and if I wanna be like you, I've got to be clever at school, too.

"You won't believe this, but I've got some new friends at school. I don't think I would have made friends at all, if it wasn't for Bucky. He lives a couple of blocks away, and he's a lot of fun. He always has great ideas for games, and he doesn't treat me like I'm some sickly kid who can't do anything.

"I like Bucky's friends, though I'm not sure they'd be friends with me if it wasn't for Bucky. We hang out together during the moms' bridge club… but I guess Mom will tell you about that when I'm finished. The weather's been real nice lately, so while Mom plays bridge, Mr. Barnes takes us to the park, and we play baseball. Bucky says I'm miles better than Mary-Ann, but I don't think that's saying much. I'm not very good, but I'm getting better. When I first started batting, I couldn't hit anything, but now I get three out of ten. We've gotta be quick catching the ball after, otherwise Bingo gets it. He's Bucky's dog. He likes running after the ball, but it's hard to get it back off him, after. He can run even faster than Bucky."

He stopped to inspect a speck of moss that was forming in the '8' of 1918. He picked at it until it came away, then continued.

"I wish you were here, Dad. I wish you could come to the park with us, and teach me how to bat properly, and help us get the ball back from Bingo. And I wish you could walk me and Mom home, after bridge, and we could tell Mom all about the park, and she could tell us about her bridge game, and we could go up to the apartment together, then sit in the living room and listen to the music on the radio. And you and Mom could dance, and I'd pretend to be more interested in reading my books than watching you dance with Mom. But I'd secretly be glad to see Mom happy and smiling. She doesn't smile as much as some of the other moms."

He reached up and scrubbed his fists across his eyes, wiping away the tears that spilled onto the bunch of flowers. _Stupid pollen,_ he lied to himself. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"Anyway. That's what's happened since our last visit. I'm gonna let Mom talk to you now, and I'll see you next month. I just wanted you to know that I still think about you every day, and I miss you more than ever. Even though I never got to meet you, I know that you would've been a great dad."

He stood up and dusted the dried grass from his pants, then joined his mom underneath the nearby sycamore tree. She gave him a sad smile, and reached out to smooth his hair down with the palm of her hand.

"Did you say everything you wanted to?" she asked, even though he knew she'd been able to hear some of it.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He liked Mr. Barnes just fine, but he wanted so bad for his own dad to be there, doing those things with him, that it made his chest ache painfully. Not like an asthma sort of ache, but a deep, tear-wrenching ache, like some part of him was missing, and would always be missing, and he was only just starting to understand the depths of his own loss.

"I'll just be a few minutes, honey," Mom said. She cupped his chin for a moment as she studied his face. "You have his eyes, you know."

"Thanks, Mom," he whispered, and she gave him a quick, hard hug, punctuated by another sad smile.

As Mom went over to the headstone, to talk to Dad, Steve sank down onto the ground beneath the sycamore, and brought his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around them tight. Life, he decided, was very unfair.

* * *

 _A/N: Popovers are a roundish, hollow roll made from batter, and can be filled with jam/jelly/fruit/cream to be a sweet breakfast treat, or meat to be a savoury dinner-time food. In England, these would be Yorkshire Puddings (or very similar)._


	13. Candles

_13\. Candles_

Bucky raced down the street, a small linen drawstring bag clutched in his hands. He was gonna be late. It was his mom's fault. She'd made him get changed into something 'nicer', and then insisted on polishing his shoes for him. But his shoes were fine, and there was nothing wrong with his first set of clothes; the pants had been a little on the short side, but the shirt had fitted well.

His mom seemed to see problems where none existed. Like all that dust she kept complaining about, yet nobody else ever saw.

Several street vendors called out to him as he jogged past, offering pastries for two cents, tiny flags for a nickel, or sparklers for a dime. He called, "No thanks!" as he continued his dash. Normally he loved setting off sparklers on Independence Day, but today he had somewhere else to be, and thanks to Mom's fussing, he was already late.

He reached the building with two minutes to spare, and pelted up the stairwell to the sixth floor. As he climbed, he tried to ignore the stale smell rising up from the bottom of the stairs. The apartment block was a step up from the dilapidated tenements of Manhattan's Lower East Side, but it wasn't a very big step, and for some reason, the stairwell always smelt like Charlie's diapers in the morning.

Outside the Rogers' door, he took a moment to compose himself. Took a deep breath in, so he wasn't gasping quite so badly. Made sure his shirt was still neatly tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and that his shoelaces hadn't come untied in the sprint. Licked the flat of his hand and used it to smooth down a stubborn lock of his hair that always tried to stick up in the wrong direction… then knocked on the door, and waited.

The door was flung backwards, revealing Steve with a half-hidden grin on his face. Today he was wearing a brand new shirt, and it hung kinda awkwardly from his bony shoulders. Probably bought for him to 'grow into.' Moms did that all the time.

"Happy Birthday!" Bucky said, thrusting the small bag forward. Steve's eyes widened in surprise as he reached out and took it. "And sorry I'm late. Mom made me change."

"You didn't have to get me a present," Steve said.

"Sure I did! That's the whole point of birthdays. Otherwise it would just be like any other day. Now, quit yammering and open it!"

Steve obeyed. Opening the drawstrings at the top, he reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of small, beautiful glass marbles, each one a work of art. Inside each glass sphere was an explosion of colour, as if tiny galaxies had formed within them. One of the galaxies slipped between Steve's fingers, and Bucky caught it before it could hit the floor and smash into a thousand stars.

"Bucky, these are amazing!" said Steve, as he stared at the tiny swirls of glass, an expression of awe on his face. "I've seen glass marbles before, but I've only ever had commies. Thank you!"

"Don't mention it. Most of my marbles are alleys, but Mitch has got a couple of nice glass swirlies."

"Steve," Mrs. Rogers voice called from the kitchen, "don't leave James standing out in the hall all day."

A pale blush suffused Steve's cheeks, and he stepped aside. "Sorry, come on in. Are you sure you wouldn't be out celebrating Independence Day, though?"

It was the question Steve had asked every day since inviting Bucky over for his birthday. But Bucky had celebrated many Independence days; at least six, that he could remember. He'd never celebrated Steve's birthday before.

"Of course I'm sure. My mom's gonna save a sparkler for me anyway."

Inside the apartment, they tipped the marbles out of the bag and began sorting through them, looking for interesting ones. He'd begged Mom several times for glass marbles of his own, over the summer; she'd told him to be patient and ask for them in his letter to Santa.

At least Steve had some now, though. With these marbles, he'd be the envy of all the kids in the playground. Maybe that was why Mom had suggested buying them in the first place. Of course, Bucky would have to keep an eye on the marbles, make sure that jerk, Cavanagh, didn't try to steal them.

"This one's my favourite," Steve said, holding up a small marble with a twist of orange and white inside it.

"I like this one," said Bucky. He rolled a red, white and blue swirled marbled across the floor. "It's got the colours of the flag on it."

"Yeah, that's pretty nice," Steve admitted. He picked the red, white and blue up, and turned it around in his fingers a few times.

"If you boys can tear yourselves away from those marbles for a moment, how would you like some cake?" Mrs. Rogers asked.

She appeared from the kitchen carrying a board with a large cake on it. It was a sponge cake, with some sort of jelly that oozed generously from the centre, and it was coated with a liberal sprinkling of icing sugar. On top were nine small candles, their flames dancing merrily to a gentle, unseen breeze.

Bucky and Mrs. Rogers sang a chorus of ' _Happy birthday to you!'_ , whilst Steve's face flushed pink from all the attention. It was definitely worth missing Independence Day, to see how happy Steve was. After all, everybody who'd been around for America's first birthday was already gone, but Steve was here now.

"Blow out the candles and make a wish, Steve!" Mrs. Rogers instructed, at the end of the song.

Bucky watched as Steve closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. Whatever he was wishing for, he seemed to be wishing real hard. At last he blew wheezily across the candles… they sputtered, and died.

"Well done, honey," Mrs. Rogers beamed. "Now, I'll go cut this up into pieces. James, do you want to take some home for your parents and Mary-Ann? There's far too much here for Steve and I to finish. It will only go to waste."

"Sure, Mrs. Rogers, thanks."

Steve's mom disappeared back into the kitchen, taking the delicious-looking cake out of sight. Bucky could almost taste it already. He loved cake. He loved all food, really… except broccoli. Broccoli was horrible, no matter what his mom said about it being good for making boys grow big and strong. Cake could do that just fine.

"You wanna play a game of marbles while we wait for cake?" Steve offered. "If you didn't bring yours, we could share mine out."

"Sounds great!" He settled down onto the floor, then turned to Steve. "So, what'd you wish for?"

"Oh." Steve toyed with the red, white and blue marble for a moment, before looking up to meet Bucky's eyes. "I wished that all my birthdays will be as happy as this one."

Bucky merely nodded, and gestured for Steve to throw the first marble. But he made a secret, silent promise to his friend.

 _They will be._


	14. Melting

_14\. Melting_

They stood with their foreheads pressed against the bedroom window, the heat of their breath fogging up the glass as rivulets of water poured down the outside. Steve had always liked the rain; when it rained, kids stayed in. They didn't run around the streets, playing, and laughing, and having a great time. When it rained, Steve didn't have to stand by the window, watching the things he couldn't have.

Now, he hated the rain. It kept him from running around the streets, playing, and laughing, and having a great time. Rain had finally done what the Mexicans, and the Indians, and the Redcoats, had not been able to do.

"It was good while it lasted," Bucky sighed, sending a deeper puff of breath to cloud the cool glass.

"I'll never forget it," Steve agreed.

In silence they stood, as the window grew foggy, and the rain melted Fort Bingo into a mound of cardboard mulch.


	15. Swing and Miss

_15\. Swing and Miss_

Steve reached down with the toe of his shoe, and kicked at a stone on the ground beneath him. He missed with the first kick, but got it on the second; the stone went skipping across the empty playground, and disappeared under a bush.

He took a quick sideways glance at the girl on the swing beside him. She was perched comfortably despite her feet being a foot or more above the ground. With her arms wrapped around the swing chains, she looked more at ease than Steve felt, though she was showing a dogged interest in a stray piece of thread sticking out from her pinafore.

"Do you want me to… um… push you on the swing?" Steve offered.

Mary-Ann grinned at him. "Nah! I don't need pushing. See." She swung her legs back beneath her, then out in front of her. On each back-and-forth swing of her legs, the narrow wooden seat moved with the transference of weight. A moment later, she was swinging high, describing an arc that made Steve dizzy just watching it.

"Oh. That's… err… great," he said. And, mentally, _'Hurry up, Bucky!'_ It was the start of a new school year, and Bucky was trying out for the softball team. Steve wasn't even bothering. The sports coach always looked at him like he was some sort of annoying insect, too pathetic to even be swatted away. Besides, he was still only hitting three out of ten balls pitched, and that was on a good day.

"Ha, look what we got here!" a familiar voice sneered.

Steve tensed as Danny and Sammy Cavanagh stepped through the gate. Danny still tried to find ways of tripping Steve every lunch time, and when he failed, he found other methods of tormenting his victim. He wasn't a complete idiot; he never did it when teachers were around. And right now, there were no teachers around.

"Two little lovebirds perched on their swings."

"Shove off, Cavanagh," Steve said, a scowl deepening on his face. It was bad enough that the bully picked on Steve; picking on Mary-Ann was a whole other matter. She was a girl. And she was younger. It wasn't right.

Cavanagh stopped in front of Steve's swing and planted his fists on his hips. Steve wished he had Mary-Ann's ability to swing without being pushed; he would've liked to have swung his feet right into Cavanagh's big stupid face.

"Say that again, runt," Cavanagh growled.

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. His mom had a saying; _let sleeping dogs lie_. That meant don't stir up trouble. But if Cavanagh was a dog, he definitely never slept. He stirred up trouble all on his own, and ignoring him only made him more persistent.

He slid from the swing and wobbled as he landed on the ground. _What would Dad do?_ he asked himself. That was easy: his dad would stand up to a bully. He'd died standing up to bullies. And if Dad was watching from Heaven, Steve had to show him that he was cut from the same cloth.

He took a step forward, to stand in front of the boy who was a full foot taller than him. Inside his chest, his heart pounded an irregular tattoo. He tried to ignore how sweaty his palms had suddenly got. Lifting his chin, he unclenched his jaw.

"I said shove off, Cavanagh."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said."

A fist appeared from nowhere, catching Steve across his cheek. The shock and the force sent him sprawling as pain blossomed hotly on his skin. He grazed his elbow on the asphalt as he fell, but it was a mere sting compared to the throbbing of his cheek.

Trying to slow her flight, unable to do anything but watch, Mary-Ann yelled out, "Hey, leave him alone, fatty!"

The Cavanagh brothers burst out laughing.

"Sounds like your girlfriend's got more guts than you, runt," Danny Cavanagh cackled. "Poor little runty Rogers, needs a _girl_ to stand up for him."

Steve pushed himself to his feet, his hands balling up into fists. He swung while Cavanagh was still grinning… his fist bounced harmlessly off Cavanagh's ribs, and the older boy lashed out again, sending Steve spinning with a back-hand.

"Hey!"

Even as he was falling again, picking up a matching asphalt-burn on his other elbow, he recognised Bucky's voice. There was so much anger in that one word, that it momentarily shocked him. Through his hands on the asphalt, Steve felt the vibration of Bucky's approaching footsteps. He imagined it was like the way the ground rumbled during a cavalry charge.

"You gonna fight the runt's battles for him, Barnes?" Cavanagh gloated, though there was a tinge of something else creeping into his voice. It might have been worry.

"No, I'm not."

The words sent Steve's heart racing again. So far, Bucky had stood up for Steve no more than he'd stood up for any of his other friends, but he'd always been there when Steve really needed him, even when Steve's stubborn, wounded pride made him tell his friend over and over again that he didn't need help. Knowing that Bucky had his back made it a little easier to tolerate Cavanagh's daily attention.

"But," Bucky continued, before Steve could wonder any further, "I might fight them _with_ him."

A smile played across Steve's lips. _Just like the Alamo._

There was nothing Cavanagh could say to that. He slunk off with his little brother in tow, and Steve saw a hand appear beside him. When he accepted it, he was pulled to his feet.

"Y'okay?" Bucky asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah. I think so." He turned his grateful smile to his friend. "Thanks."

Mary-Ann slowed her flight enough to jump from the swing. Unlike Steve, she didn't land with a wobble. Her blue-grey eyes widened as she dashed over. "Steve, you're bleeding!"

She pointed to his lower lip, and when he brought the back of his hand up to it, a sharp stab of pain made him wince. Just a bust lip. It wasn't his first, and wouldn't be his last. A bit of iodine, and he'd be fine.

"Thanks, pal," Bucky said, as Steve tried to stem the flow of blood. "It's good to know my sister has someone to look out for her, when I'm not around."

"I can look out for myself!" Mary-Ann scowled. Steve suspected she might be right. After all, if he hadn't been there, Cavanagh probably wouldn't have given her a second glance.

Bucky ignored her, and threw an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Now, if you're gonna look out for my sister, it's about time I taught you how to punch."


	16. Punching Bag

_16\. Punching Bag_

The rickety old stairs didn't feel very safe, but Bucky assured him they were. A single light bulb illuminated the dusty staircase, creating more shadows than it banished.

"Are you sure your dad doesn't mind?" Steve asked again, for what felt like the millionth time that day.

"Of course he doesn't mind! He's always on the lookout for new fighters."

"I'm hardly the next world champion in the making," he pointed out.

Bucky merely gave him a lopsided grin. "Never say never!"

Boxing. It was Bucky's idea, and Steve hadn't dared tell his mom yet. She wasn't a worrier, or over-protective, like Mitch's mom, but Steve wasn't sure she'd like the idea of him learning how to fight. But Bucky made a very good point; if he was going to get into fights anyway, he might as well learn how to do it properly. It wasn't as if he'd be going around _looking_ for them.

The rickety old staircase did not agree with Steve's asthma. The swirling motes of dust kicked up by their feet tickled his throat and made his lungs sting. He switched to shallow breathing, and prayed that he wouldn't have a full-blown attack in front of his friend. His mom said a lot of kids grew out of their asthma; Steve just wished he would grow faster.

When the stairs ended, the gym began. Bucky pushed open the door at the top of the staircase, and they stepped out into a whole new world. A world that smelled of sweating bodies, the air filled with grunts and groans and meaty thuds, of feed tapping on the floor of the ring as men danced around each other, all punctuated by the squeak and squeal of metal rings holding up heavy punching bags punished by the fists of men who could've stepped on Steve without even noticing him.

He stared open mouthed as Bucky led him through the open, airy space. They dodged punching bags and stepped around men bouncing with skipping ropes. Steve saw all sorts of bodies. Slender, wiry bodies. Large, solid bodies. Arms with bulging biceps and thighs as wide as tree trunks. Bodies which were pale as milk, and bodies which were dark as cocoa beans. Bodies which glistened with the sweat of exertion. But none of the bodies looked like Steve's.

Bucky called out affable greetings to the men as they passed, and the ones who weren't focused on punching, or skipping, or grunting, returned his calls. They all seemed to know him by name… but then, given that he was the gym owner's son, that wasn't surprising.

"Hi Dad!" Bucky called.

Steve glanced over to the corner of the room, where Mr. Barnes was refereeing a bout between two young men. He didn't move his gaze by even an inch as he returned, "Hi, boys."

"Let's go to one of the bags at the back of the gym," said Bucky. "Out of the way."

Steve nodded. Everything was so new and exciting that he'd forgotten all about his asthma, and was finally breathing normally again. They discarded their coats on a nearby bench, and Bucky led him over to a punching bag a little smaller than the others.

"Alright, why don't you just give it a punch?" Bucky said. He took up position behind the bag, to hold it in place, and Steve thought he was being extremely generous by doing that. The men sweating and grunting as they took their aggression out on the nearby bags made it look easy. He suspected it was anything but. Perhaps Bucky ought to stand behind _him_ , to keep him upright and in place.

"Come a little closer," Bucky suggested, when Steve approached the bag. "You can't really punch that effectively from so far away."

So Steve inched closer. When he was within a foot of the bag, he drew back his right hand, curled his fingers into a fist, and prepared to let the punch fly.

"Stop!" Bucky said, and Steve pulled the punch just before it hit the bag. In his chest, his heart pounded an irregular staccato. Had he done something wrong? "You can't punch like that, you'll break your wrist!"

"Oh." Steve lowered his hand and looked at his fist, tiny little thing that it was, on the end of his weedy arm. "How do I punch _without_ breaking my wristt?" His mom would kill him if he ended up in plaster. And how would he write notes in class and doodle in his notebook if he couldn't hold a pencil?

Bucky grabbed Steve's fist and moved it into a new position. His hands were so much bigger than Steve's that they could almost cover his whole fist.

"See here," Bucky said. "The bones which run down your first two fingers need to be in line with your arm, when you make a fist. Like this." He demonstrated with his own fist, showing Steve how his fingers and knuckles lined up. "You try it."

It took a few attempts, but Steve finally got the hang of the feeling, and then Bucky let him punch the bag a few times. _Softly_. The fastest way to shred knuckles was, apparently, to go at the bag with full force in every punch.

"You did great," Bucky said, after half an hour had flown by. "We'll get you some bandages for strapping up your hands when you're practising, and some proper gloves for when you're ready to punch people. We'll have you fighting like a pro in no time."

Steve looked around, at the men still punching, at the bags swinging and the ropes of the ring pulling taught as men leaned into them. He was sure Bucky was just saying those things to be nice… but he had to admit, it was good to know he at least had the correct technique, now. In another few years, maybe when he'd grown out of his asthma and had his growth spurt, he'd be able to throw punches like the sweating men. After all, before you could stand up for yourself, you had to make sure you were standing straight.


	17. The sun and the wind

_17\. The sun and the wind_

Tears of anger burned in Steve's eyes. He refused to let them spill. Turned the anger in on himself. Let it become a form of hatred. _I hate that I'm so weak. I hate my body, I hate that I'm not stronger._

"Here Steve, lemme give you a hand!" Bucky chirruped helpfully. He reached down, to pick up the other end of the wooden post.

"I don't want any help!" Steve growled, dropping the end he'd picked up.

Bucky's eyes widened, and he stood slowly back up. Steve bent again, from the knees this time, to grasp the post with both hands. As he tried to lift it, and felt his arms burn and ache with the effort, he wished he and Bucky had never offered to help Bucky's dad put up new garden fencing. Bucky could lift the posts just fine, but Steve was too weak. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't he be strong, like Bucky?

Something sharp bit into the palm of his hand. With a yelp, he dropped the post, and lifted his hand. A splinter of wood was lodged under his skin. Just a splinter, but he'd yelled like he'd had his hand lopped off. The tears burning again, he kicked out at the post lying abandoned on the ground. The post didn't budge, but it _did_ hurt his foot.

Mr. Barnes took a look at the boys, then disappeared inside. Steve didn't care. He sank down onto the ground and tried to pick the splinter out from his hand. His tear-blurred vision made it difficult to see. He kept expecting Bucky to step forward and help, but when he glanced up, he saw his friend feigning interest in the white puffed head of a dandelion.

"Here you go, boys, let's take a break," said Mr. Barnes. He appeared from the kitchen door, three glasses of lemonade in his hands. He took a seat on the garden bench, and handed out the drinks. "Have you boys ever heard the story of the Sun and the North Wind? It's one of Aesops's fables."

They both shook their heads, and Mr. Barnes began.

"The North Wind and the Sun had an argument about who was strongest. The North Wind claimed he was the stronger of the two, and he proposed a contest, to settle the matter once and for all. In the distance, he spied a traveller, his cloak billowing around him,

' _See that traveller over there?'_ he said to the Sun. ' _Whichever of us can rid him of his travelling cloak fastest will be forever known as the strongest.'_

' _Very well,'_ the Sun agreed. ' _You go first.'_ And he retreated behind a cloud, to watch the wind at work.

The North Wind grew smug, for he knew his own strength; he could pull up trees and topple buildings, so strong was he! He raced towards the traveller, carrying with him an icy blast from the North. He blew and blew, but the stronger he blew, the more tightly the traveller clung to his cloak.

Eventually, the North Wind exhausted himself. He left the traveller and flew up into the sky. _If I couldn't rid the traveller of his cloak, the Sun doesn't stand a chance,_ he thought to himself.

The Sun came out from behind his cloud and sent a gentle, warming ray towards the traveller on his path. It was pleasant, after so much cold, icy wind. After a while, the traveller unbuttoned his cloak and let it hang from his shoulders.

Soon, the Sun was burning fiercely in the sky. The ground began to bake, and sweat poured down the traveller's face. At last he could take the burning sun no more; he took off his cloak and used it to mop at his brow. Then, to escape the burning sun, he threw himself down on his cloak in the shade of a tree, and promptly fell fast asleep in the heat.

' _How did you do that?'_ the North Wind asked the Sun.

The Sun merely smiled, and said, ' _True strength comes from wit and persuasion, not from brute force.'_

"Now, I don't know about you boys," Mr. Barnes said, "But if I had a choice, I'd rather be the Sun than the North Wind."

Steve nodded thoughtfully, and took a sip of his lemonade. Maybe Mr. Barnes was right. The North Wind had been so big and blustery, but ultimately he'd proven himself too weak to perform the task he'd set for the challenge. Maybe it really _was_ better to be the Sun.

He looked down at the splinter in his hand. It didn't hurt. Not really. Mom could take it out, later. Right now, he had a fence to help build.


	18. Arrival

_18\. Arrival_

"And then Tommy and I waited until Mrs. Hilfigger turned back to the oven, and we snuck right up to her kitchen window and swiped that pie practically from under her nose. Took two big slices and put the pie back, and we were young men before we finally told her what we did. She just laughed about it, and said, 'Boys will be boys!'"

"That's a great story, Mr. Peterson," said Bucky. But his heart wasn't in the compliment. His eyes kept dancing to the window, to the darkening street outside. His ears were strained for the sound of a motor chugging outside the house. It had been four hours since Dad had gone to pick Mom up from the hospital, and Bucky felt like mice had crawled into his stomach and were racing around in it, making him feel sick.

"What kinda pie was it, Mr. Peterson?" Steve asked.

"There was only one kinda pie back then, son: apple pie!"

Steve grinned. "Apple pie is Bucky's favourite kinda pie. Ain't that right, Buck?"

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, his eyes flickering back to the window.

"Give 'em time, son," said Mr. Peterson. His own children were grown up and living with families of their own. His wife had passed away six years ago, so he was always happy to look after Bucky and his brother and sister, whenever Mom and Dad wanted to go out for the night. Said being around kids made him feel young again.

Bucky nodded, trying not to appear impatient. It wasn't easy. They'd been waiting so long that Mary-Ann had fallen asleep in the armchair, her arms wrapped around two-and-a-half year old Charlie, who'd dropped off almost as soon as Dad had left the house. Charlie was drooling on Mary-Ann's shoulder, but Bucky couldn't be bothered to get up and wipe it away. Curled up on the sofa under a blanket with Steve, he was too warm and comfortable to move.

A motor purred outside the house before the engine cut out to silence. Bucky leapt up from the sofa and dashed to the window. A smile pulled his lips all the way up to his cheekbones when he saw his dad leading his mom up the path through the yard, an arm wrapped around her shoulder as she clutched a tiny bundle in her arms.

"Wake up, they're back!" he yelled, shaking Mary-Ann by her dry shoulder, tapping Charlie's arm.

They were on their feet by the time Mom and Dad walked through the door. Mom still looked as big as she had before going into hospital, and there were tired circles of grey beneath her eyes, but she smiled when she saw them all lined up awaiting her return.

"Kids, say hello to your little sister, Janet," she said.

Mr. Peterson fluffed up the cushions on the couch, and Dad helped her sit down, which she managed with a wince. In her arms was a bundle of soft pink blankets, and a tiny scrunched-up face at one end of them. Janet's eyes were closed above chubby thread-veined cheeks.

"Ooh can I hold her please can I hold her?" Mary-Ann begged.

"Maybe in the morning," Mom smiled weakly. "She only dropped off to sleep on the drive home, and she's quite a fussy sleeper. I think she found the sound of the car engine soothing. God knows, my singing wasn't doing anything."

"She's great, Mom!" Bucky smiled. He ran the back of his fingers gently across Janet's cheek. He couldn't remember Mary-Ann being so small, but his memory went back far enough to recall how Charlie had been at this age… loud, and hurling up everything Mom fed him.

Bucky quickly took a step back, just in case Janet decided to wake up and hurl.

He noticed Steve and Charlie loitering on the edge of the group, and gestured them over.

"Come and look at Janet."

"She's so tiny!" said Steve, when he'd moved a little closer. "Like one of Mary-Ann's dolls."

Charlie looked at the small pink face of his younger sister, and wrinkled his own face to match. "I wanna cookie."

"Why don't I get us all a snack?" Dad said. "And a cup of tea, for Mom. Mr. Peterson, can I talk you into you a bourbon? We can have a proper toast for our new arrival."

"Just a small one, Cal," Mr. Peterson smiled.

"Are you gonna have another boy next, Mom?" Bucky asked. "You've gone boy, girl, boy, girl, so a boy's next, right?" Another brother would be neat. Soon, Dad really _would_ have his own baseball team.

"I think you have enough brothers and sisters," Mom said, with a wan smile. "And I'm not the energetic young thing I was when I had you and Mary-Ann. Four times in childbirth is quite enough for me!"

"I wish I had brothers and sisters," Steve said, a wistful look in his blue eyes as he stared at Janet's face.

Bucky grinned, and threw his arm around Steve's bony shoulders. "Don't worry, Steve, you can share mine!"


	19. Reasons to be thankful

_19\. Reasons to be thankful_

Steve scrunched up his eyes, pulled the blanket over his head, and stuffed his fingers in his ears. When that didn't work, he pulled a pillow over his head, to try and muffle the sound. His belly was full of turkey and stuffing and taters and carrots, but his head was full of wailing baby.

He removed the pillow from his head and looked over to Bucky, who was lying on the couch cushion next to him. Both cushions were on the floor, and both boys were on the cushions. By the dim light of the candle in the hurricane lamp, he could just about make out Bucky's shadowed face. "How long's this gonna go on for?" he asked.

Bucky winced as a particularly agonised wail pierced the air. Nobody was sleeping in the Barnes' household tonight. "I dunno. She's got colic, so it could be hours." His normally cheerful blue-grey eyes turned even more dour. "Or days."

"It hurts my head," Charlie complained from his bed.

"And you were even noisier the time _you_ got colic, pipsqueak."

Charlie stuck out his bottom lip, sulking in true three-year-old fashion. "Wasn't."

"Were too. And you pooped _everywhere_."

"Didn't!"

Steve turned onto his back and tuned out from the sibling bickering. Charlie was grouchy. Bucky was grouchy. Mr. and Mrs. Barnes were exhausted. They'd invited Steve over for Thanksgiving dinner 'cos Steve's mom had been given the evening shift at the hospital—according to Mom's doctor-boss, " _TB doesn't go on holiday at Thanksgiving, you know!"_ —and whilst Steve had been thrilled, he hadn't realised how many sleepless night had already occurred in the house. The food had been great; the screaming baby Janet, less so.

Was this how it always was for parents? Already he could hear Mrs. Barnes singing to Janet in the room next door, trying to get her to sleep. Before that, Mr. Barnes had read to her. They took it in turns to get out of bed and try to comfort their sick child.

Steve's mom had done it all herself. The sleepless nights. The constant feeding. The colic. The pooping everywhere. How exhausted must she have been? How much trouble had Steve unintentionally put his mom through? The thought of the misery he must've caused made the slowly digesting turkey churn unpleasantly in his stomach. He owed so much to his mom. How could he ever make it up to her?

o - o - o - o - o

At midday the next day, while his mom was sleeping in from her late night shift, Steve pulled a half dozen eggs and some cornstarch from the kitchen cupboard, and a little milk from the icebox. He brought out a pan, dumped it onto the cooker, and added a generous dollop of butter to it.

When he'd rather shyly asked Mrs. Barnes how he could cook scrambled eggs, she'd showed him her own family recipe. Now, he followed it as close as he could remember. Broke the eggs in a bowl. Put in the milk. Added the cornstarch. Mixed it all together. Poured the mixture into the heated butter, and waited for it to start to cook.

Mom showed up just as Steve was putting toast in the toaster. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen clad in her long winter night robe, and rubbed her eyes as she watched Steve at work.

"What are you doing?" she asked after a moment. "If you were hungry, you could've woken me; I would've made breakfast for you."

"I'm not hungry," he assured her. "And I'm making breakfast for _you._ "

He found himself caught up in a swiftly administered, rib-crushing hug. Mom didn't even seem to realise the eggs were browning and the toast was burning until he gasped, "Mom, I need to finish cooking!" When she let him go, he told her to sit at the table until he was finished. For a wonder, she didn't object.

The pan was heavy, but Steve managed to spoon the eggs onto the toast, which he'd put out on two plates. He set the toast with its slightly burnt side down, so it would look better. Hopefully it wouldn't taste like charcoal. He hated burnt toast.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Mom asked, as he brought her plate to the table and joined her with his own plate and some mismatched cutlery.

"Nuthin'. I just wanted to do something nice for you." She didn't look like she believed him. Maybe she was worried he'd gotten into a fight again. That happened a lot, but it wasn't his fault. Well, _mostly_ not his fault. "I'm sorry if I was a pain when I was a baby, and being sick and pooping everywhere," he added for clarification. "It must'a been hard for you looking after me when you were all alone."

"Not even for a moment," she said, her blue eyes suddenly serious. Her lips twisted into a smile he didn't entirely understand, not even when she said, "Now, childbirth, on the other hand…"

As they ate, he told her about how Mrs. Barnes had shown him how to make scrambled eggs, and his Thanksgiving with Bucky's family, and how sick Janet was, and how grumpy everybody at the Barnes' household had been. Mom nodded along, and added her professional opinion.

"Babies need a lot of care. But don't worry, as Janet grows up, she'll sleep more and cry less. There won't be so many sleepless nights."

"I'm glad I'm almost grown up so you don't have to spend so much time worrying and taking care of me," he told her.

She reached out a hand, to flatten down a strand of his hair which always managed to find ways of sticking up awkwardly. "I'm lucky to have such a dependable young man about the house. Your father would be so proud to see you taking care of yourself, and me."

"Are we going to the cemetery next week?" he asked. Last day of every month. Family tradition. The one day they got to spend together.

"Of course. The florist has the wreath prepared."

Steve nodded. "If everything that dies goes to heaven, does that mean when the flowers in the wreath die, they go to heaven and dad gets them?"

His mom smiled, a sad smile that he usually only saw when she thought he wasn't looking. "I don't know, Steve. I like to think that he does. I like to think he gets our thoughts and our prayers as well."

"Yeah." He chewed his lip for a moment. For the past few months, something had been weighing heavy on his mind, but he didn't know how to bring it up. The time had never felt right. Now, he thought he had a chance. "When I die and go to heaven, how will I find Dad? I don't even know what he looks like."

"Come with me." Mom held out her hand, and Steve took it. She led him to her bedroom and sat him down on the bed, then opened up her wardrobe and rooted around in the bottom until she came to her old jewelry box. Mom didn't wear much jewelry; work forbade all but wedding and engagement rings. When she sat down beside him and balanced the box on her knee, Steve tried not to peer over the lid at the contents.

She pulled out a small silver locket on a delicate spider-thread chain. "Your father gave this to me, the day before the left for the War." She opened the clasp which held the two halves together, and Steve's breath caught in his throat when he saw a tiny picture inside. "I took it off the day I got word of his death, and I haven't been able to wear it since. It's the only picture I had of your father—his mother kept the rest—and it hurt me too much to have it with me all the time." Reaching out for Steve's hand, she turned it palm-up and lowered the necklace into it. The metal was like a cold thread of water trickling across his palm. "I want you to have it, Steve. I'm sorry I didn't show it to you before, but… I wanted to. Talking about Joe hurt. It still does. But it's wrong of me to keep this from you."

"But Mom, this is yours!"

"Yes." She gave him another of those sad smiled, and tapped her temple. "But I have so many wonderful memories of your father, and I can picture him much more clearly up here. I can see his smile, his kindly eyes, I can hear his laugh and sometimes feel the touch of his hand on my face. You don't have any of that, and unless your Grandma feels like handing over some of those other pictures, this is the only one you may ever have of him."

Steve looked more closely at the face in the picture, and felt an aching pang of longing in his chest. Dark haired, wide-faced, handsome and smiling, the man looked more like he ought to be Bucky's dad than Steve's. He wasn't much like Steve had imagined him… but then, Steve had imagined his dad to be a bigger, older, healthier version of Steve himself. Maybe it wasn't fair to expect Dad to be things he wasn't. Now, Steve had a _real_ picture of his _real_ dad, not just the Dad he'd imagined in his head. Now it was time to get to know the face of the father he'd never known.

He threw himself into his mom's arms, clasping his hand tightly around the locket so he didn't drop it. "Thanks, Mom, I'll keep it with me forever!"

Warm drops of salty water splashed down onto his face, but he didn't care; his cheeks were already wet with his own tears of bittersweet happiness.

* * *

 _Author's note: Sorry 'bout the long time between updates; I've been recovering from injury/illness. For the record, I've never tried making scrambled eggs with cornstarch, but Mrs. Barnes assures me her recipe is delicious._


	20. Ribbons and Shoes

_Author's note: Here's a Barnes Family Christmas, courtesy of Bucky's memories from my fic, 'Running To You.' Next chapter will be another pre-existing memory, and original content will resume next week. For those of you who've already read this in my larger fic, I hope you enjoy the peek back into Bucky's life. Big thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed to date!_

* * *

 _20\. Ribbons and Shoes_

"But Momma, I don't wanna go!"

The wail of despair came from three year old Charlie, whose bottom lip was stuck out so far that Bucky thought he could have tossed hoops onto it. The boy's shirt was buttoned only half way, and incorrectly at that, and his left trouser leg was tucked into his grey socks.

His beleaguered mother stuck her head from around the kitchen door, where she was giving six month old Janet a late night feeding. Her dark brown hair had been set into perfect curls, ready for the family outing.

"Bucky," she sighed, "please would you fix up your brother's outfit? I won't have him sitting in Mass looking like he got dressed in the dark."

Bucky nodded and put down the rag and brush he'd been using to polish his shoes. "C'mere, pipsqueak." He reached for Charlie, who tried to run away, but Bucky was faster. He lifted his little brother onto his knee and swiftly re-buttoned his blue shirt.

"I don't wanna go!" Charlie whined again. "Why do I gotta go?"

"Because it's Christmas," Bucky explained. "And if you don't go to Mass, you won't get presents tomorrow."

"Bucky." His mother's voice held a note of warning that didn't need elaboration.

"I mean, err, because it's super important to remember the birth of Jesus Christ," he corrected. Leaning forward towards his brother, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "And because you won't get presents tomorrow, otherwise."

"MOM!" A frustrated shriek pierced the air, making both Bucky and Charlie jump. A few seconds later it was accompanied by loud stomping as Mary-Ann ran down the stairs. She appeared in the living room looking flustered, her cheeks pink and a red ribbon clutched in her fist, which she raised and shook in the direction of the kitchen door. There was always drama, with Mary-Ann.

"Mom, I can't tie my ribbon, it keeps dropping out!"

"Bucky..?"

"Yeah yeah, I got the ribbon. Give it here, Annie."

She handed it over and gave him a scowl of warning. "Make sure you don't tie it too low, and make sure to do a double—"

"I know how you like your ribbon tying," he interrupted. His sister was only a few weeks away from turning nine, but she was already as picky about her appearance as a grown woman. More picky, in fact. Mom certainly never shrieked like that over her hair. He swiftly wove the ribbon into his sister's plaited locks, tying it off firmly so it wouldn't fall out. Charlie made an automatic grab for the colourful thing, and Bucky quickly slapped his chubby hand away. Mary-Ann would have kittens if Charlie messed her hair up now. "There you go."

She turned to face him and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "Does it look okay?"

"Perfect," he smiled. On his knee, Charlie fidgeted to get down, and Bucky tightened his grip. His little brother had a habit of getting himself all messy if he wasn't watched closely; it was as if he had some sort of special sense for where piles of dirt or dust where at. "C'mon Charlie, time to put your shoes on. We gotta go soon, or we won't get good seats."

"I don't wanna wear my shoes!"

"Well, you gotta."

"BUT I DON'T WANNA!"

Bucky shook his head and wondered whether he'd been such a handful at Charlie's age. When he reached down and picked up the small pair of shoes, Charlie flailed in his grip, arms and legs swinging all over the place. Mary-Ann stepped back to avoid being kicked by a toddler leg.

"Don't wanna, don't wanna!" Charlie wailed.

"MOM!" Bucky shouted.

"Just put his shoes on as best you can," his mother called back.

If shoe wrestling ever became a sport, Charlie would have been the world champion. Every time Bucky got a shoe on, Charlie squirmed until he was out of his arms, then managed to kick it off. At one point, he was upside down clinging to Bucky's legs and kicking his own wildly in an effort to avoid the footwear. Mary-Ann watched on, twin expressions of disgust and amusement on her face.

"Oh, just leave him, Bucky," his sister said at last. "Only _babies_ don't wear shoes. Charlie's too little to walk with us, Dad can carry him like a baby while Mom carries _baby_ Janet."

Charlie stopped fighting and scowled at Mary-Ann. "'M' notta baby!"

"Of course you're a baby. See?" She pointed to his grey socks. "You're not wearing any shoes. Only babies don't wear shoes."

"I'm wearing shoes." Charlie made a grab for the nearest shoe, and pulled it onto the wrong foot. When Bucky corrected him and laced them up before his brother could change his mind, Charlie didn't object.

 _'Thank you'_ Bucky mouthed to his sister. When had she gotten so wise to Charlie's tantrums? She merely shrugged, and pulled on her own shiny footwear.

When Mom had finished feeding Janet, they met Dad outside, where he was talking to Mr. Peterson over the garden fence..

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes," Mr. Peterson said, tipping his cap. "And to you as well, Bucky, Mary-Ann, Charlie."

"I'm wearing shoes," said Charlie, holding up one leg.

"Well, aren't you a big boy?"

Charlie nodded solemnly.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Peterson," Mary-Ann said, and Bucky echoed her sentiment.

"Are we all ready to go?" Dad asked. He'd been ready for an hour, leaving the house early to share a brandy and escape the bedlam. Bucky couldn't wait for the day when he was old enough to escape the house early. After a chorus of 'yes', they said goodbye to Mr. Peterson and set off for the church.

A light snow had been falling for the past few hours, and the streets had an inch-thick coating which made them look fresh and crisp. With a pang of regret for the gloves forgotten on his bed, Bucky shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and a moment later Mary-Ann looped her arm through his and tucked her hands into her coat too. They strode on ahead whilst Mom and Dad strolled more slowly. Charlie ran up and down the sidewalk, laughing at his own footprints, giggling at the flakes which tickled his nose as they fell.

They reached the church just as the first bell began to toll. At the curb, Bucky grabbed Charlie's hand, and the three of them waited for their parents to catch up. Across the road, the regal building spilled colourful light from its stained glass windows, and he could already hear the pipe organ playing a slow song of welcome. Catching Mary-Ann's eyes, he smiled, and she grinned back. Tomorrow was Christmas, and that meant presents. But for tonight, there were worse ways to spend an evening than with family.


	21. Toy Soldiers

Author's note: Another Barnes Christmas memory! If you've been reading 'We Were Soldiers' you'll know how good Bucky is with kids—he's had lots of practise!

* * *

 _21\. Toy Soldiers_

"Bucky, Bucky, wake up, it's Chris-mus!"

Bucky groaned as the world's most energetic three-year-old jumped up and down on his bed and, by extension, on Bucky himself.

"Wake up wake up wake up!" Charlie demanded.

"I'm awake!" he replied, turning over in bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Daylight filtered in through curtains already pulled open by Charlie, and by the brightness outside Bucky could tell that it had snowed a whole lot more overnight. "What time is it?" he grumbled.

"Chris-mus o'clock!"

"That's not a time, pipsqueak." He raised his voice and shouted, "What time is it?" to anyone close enough to hear.

"Eight," his dad called back from the master bedroom next door. "Almost."

Stifling a yawn, Bucky sat up and pushed Charlie off his bed. Sharing a room with a three year old was tiring even when he wasn't sleepy from late night Mass, but at least the worst would soon be over. Eventually Charlie would grow up enough to find something more constructive to do with his excess energy. When Janet was old enough to sleep in a bed, Mary-Ann would have to share a room with her, and live with all the joys of a hyperactive toddler. Hopefully Janet would be less excitable than Charlie.

As Bucky dragged himself out of bed and dressed in his second-best shirt and pants, Charlie ran downstairs in his nightclothes. His cries of excitement over presents discovered beneath the Christmas tree reached Bucky's ears and drew a smile across his face. When he stepped out of his room, Mary-Ann pipped him to the top of the staircase; she looked as tired as he felt, but there was an excitement in her eyes that even tiredness couldn't hide. She skipped down the steps, her fingers deftly tying the string of her pinafore at the small of her back.

Halfway down the stairs, the smell of Mom's cooking hit Bucky like a delicious punch to the gut. Oatmeal sweetened with syrup, fried bacon, sizzling tomatoes… how'd she manage to get fresh tomatoes in the middle of winter? He shook his head. Wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was how great it would all taste.

In the living room, the Christmas tree was alive with small candles burning merrily on the ends of the strongest branches, and a large pile of neatly wrapped presents had been stacked around the trunk. Atop the tree, a homemade angel presided over the entire room, her wings made of soft white feathers and her halo sparkly as diamonds.

"Bucky, Mary-Ann, please keep your brother from tearing apart all those gifts," his mother called from the kitchen.

"I want presents from Santa," Charlie sulked, his bottom lip coming out.

"Well, you'll just have to wait, won't you?" Mary-Ann countered. Charlie, being three, ignored her more grown-up logic and made a grab for the pile of gifts, so Bucky picked him up and carried him to the couch, where he couldn't do as much damage. "Mom, can I give Janet her bottle?" Mary-Ann asked.

"I fed her already this morning, but you can hold her till I'm done with breakfast," Mom called back.

Bucky watched his sister head over to the crib, where Janet was quietly sucking away on her pacifier. Mary-Ann was obsessed with the baby, always wanting to pick her up, sing to her, feed her… Bucky thought his youngest sister was rather boring. All she did was sleep, and drink milk, and cry, and sick up. At least Charlie had got past vomiting all the time and could now do fun things, like nearly catch a ball, and one time he'd accidentally slid into home base by tripping over his own feet.

"Merry Christmas, kids," said Dad, descending the stairs as he clipped his tie to his shirt. He looked smart in his steam-pressed suit, but then again, he always looked smart. There were some things in life a man couldn't control, he'd told Bucky, but his appearance wasn't one of them.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," Bucky and Mary-Ann chorused.

"Merry Chris-mus Dada" Charlie cooed, before attempting to squirm out of his brother's arms to reach the presents.

When Dad disappeared into the kitchen, Mary-Ann gave Bucky a conspiratorial grin and nodded to the pile of presents. "Bet that one's mine," she said, indicating the largest.

"Bet that's Charlie's," he countered. "Bet that's yours, the one with the pink ribbon."

"Naw, I bet that's Mom's present from Dad."

"They're all my presents," said Charlie. "From Santa." The toddler hadn't really grasped the concept of sharing, yet, and he was going to be in for a surprise when he learnt the presents weren't all really for him.

"Breakfast's ready!" Mom called from the kitchen, and not a moment too soon. Bucky's stomach was growling so loud that Mr. Peterson could probably hear it from next door.

Mary-Ann returned Janet to her crib, and Bucky wrestled Charlie into the kitchen. Dad had already loaded his plate with toast and bacon and fried tomatoes so juicy that their skins were falling off them. Mom took command of Charlie, throwing aside her grease-spattered apron.

"But I want presents!" Charlie moaned, when he was given a plate of food.

"Eat your breakfast first," said Dad. "Then you can have presents."

Charlie looked like he was about to argue, but a stern glance from Dad closed his mouth swiftly enough. Bucky helped himself to oatmeal and toast, his mouth practically watering at the smell of the bacon. Mom always said 'manners maketh man', so he forced himself to eat slowly, to appear calm and grown up, even when Mary-Ann's gaze challenged him to the last fried tomato up for grabs in the dish. At the last minute, Dad swooped in to spear the tomato with his fork, leaving Bucky and his sister pretending they hadn't just been racing their breakfast to grab the last morsel.

"We'll be going to the Carol Service at midday," Dad said as he sipped his coffee and glanced over yesterday's newspaper.

Bucky waited patiently, fingers interlocked in front of him on the table so he couldn't tap, or fidget, or toy with his spoon while he waited for his father to finish the morning pleasantries. Dad had no patience for impatience.

"I spoke with Mrs. Rogers yesterday," Mom said. "She and Steve are going to meet us at the corner of their block."

Dad nodded, and Bucky grinned as his sister blushed. Mary-Ann had the world's biggest crush on Steve, and poor Steve was completely oblivious. Bucky was just waiting for the right moment to drop the revelation on his best friend… so he could tease both of them about it for the rest of their lives.

"Momma, I'm not hungry anymore," Charlie said, pushing his plate of half-eaten toast away. "Can I have presents from Santa now?"

Mom looked to Dad, who gave the tiniest of nods. Bucky's heart nearly leapt right out of his chest, and Bucky himself from his chair. Mary-Ann was quicker; she was in the living room while Bucky was still affecting an air of grown-up nonchalance.

The most exciting part of Christmas wasn't getting presents, having new things to play with and wear—although those ranked a close second and third, in Bucky's mind. The most exciting part of Christmas was that moment when he held a present in his hands, the moment before pulling off the ribbon and the paper, that moment of possibility, when the present could have been anything. There was nothing he liked more than that moment of excitement and anticipation, and where Mary-Ann preferred to tear through her gifts in one frenzy of unwrapping, Bucky took his time with his, drawing out the unwrapping of each present to make the excitement last as long as possible, savouring each moment.

Mary-Ann was waiting cross-legged beside the Christmas tree, an expression of unrestrained impatience etched across her face.

"I was right," she grinned, as Bucky joined her, and Mom and Dad brought Charlie from the kitchen. She held up the large box, showing him the name-tag which had 'To Mary-Ann, Love From Mom & Dad' written on it. "Mom, can I open this first?"

"Sure Annie, just give your brothers a chance to keep up with you."

His sister didn't listen. She'd gone through the large present (a new dress folded in a box — "It's amazing, I love it!") and two smaller gifts (a doll — "So adorable!" and a tin of soft candied fruits — "My favourite!") whilst Charlie had just opened his first (a new pair of shoes — "I 'ate shoes!") and Bucky was waiting for the suspense of his first present to build. It turned out to be a new winter hat, thick woollen gloves and a matching scarf. The tiny slip of paper attached to the hat said 'made in Santa's workshop' but the knitting looked suspiciously like the woollen jumpers his mother insisted on making every year.

"Oh, I hope I get a new hat and gloves, too!" said Mary-Ann, looking wistfully at his first gift whilst clutching a new hardback copy of _'The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle'_.

"I 'ate hats," said Charlie.

"Hurry up Bucky, we only have two hours until Carol Service!" Mary-Ann wheedled.

"You don't have to wait for me to open mine, you know," he told her. "You still have three or four you haven't demolished yet."

"But I want to see what you get!"

"Ooh look what I got!" Charlie cooed happily. He pulled a stuffed bear from its wrapping paper and hugged it to his chest. "Santa brought me a teddy bear."

"Santa brought me a teddy bear when I was three as well," Bucky told his brother. "I still have him, too. What are you gonna call your bear?"

"Benny!"

"You can't call him Benny. Mine's called Benny."

"Buddy!"

"I like Buddy," Mary-Ann nodded. "Buddy can be invited to Miss Milly's tea party." She held up her new doll, and Bucky grinned. She was all teddies-and-tea-parties now, but as soon as Steve came over, she'd pretend like the dolls weren't even hers.

As the unopened pile of colourfully wrapped presents dwindled, the pile of open gifts grew. Both Mary-Ann and Charlie got new hats, scarves and gloves to match Bucky's, but where his were dark blue, his sister's were white, and Charlie's dark green. Charlie got several books of nursery rhymes, another new pair of shoes, a pull-along wagon, several small toy cars and a wooden cavalry set. A colourful flower-patterned coin bank joined Mary-Ann's pile, whilst Bucky got a bag of shiny new marbles, a new baseball bat and a Rawlings pitcher's glove, a tin of boiled sweets, a gyroscope and a tinker construction kit.

"Last presents left!" Mary-Ann said, reaching for the last three under the tree. One present apiece, the same shape and size, differing only in their paper and name tags. "C'mon Charlie, stop playing with Buddy, we should open our last presents together."

Charlie clutched his new bear to his chest and accepted the present from Mary-Ann. Despite her 'togetherness' sentiment, she was first to tear off her paper, revealing a bag of nuts and a wooden nutcracker in the form of a soldier with a red jacket.

"What is it?" Charlie asked, when he'd pulled out his own green-coated wooden soldier.

"A nutcracker," Bucky told his brother. He held up his own, which was like the others, only with a blue coat. "Here, you do this." He put a nut in the nutcracker's mouth and pushed down the lever on the wooden back. The hazelnut shell split neatly open, and the nut fell out.

Charlie gave it a try, but his chubby little hands couldn't generate enough force to crack the nut. His bottom lip came out again, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. "Mine's broken!"

"Here, let me do it for you," Bucky said, cracking the nut so Charlie could see his toy really did work. "It's just that your fingers are too little to work it properly. Don't worry, I'll help you 'til you're bigger."

His little brother nodded solemnly, then pointed to the new baseball mitt. "Can I try your glove on?"

"Sure you can. You wear it like this." He put the glove on his brother's left hand and fastened it as tightly as the glove would go. It was comically large at the end of Charlie's arm. Mary-Ann grinned, and even Dad chuckled at the sight.

"It'll be a couple of years yet before we get you in the outfield, son."

"I wanna be a pitcher, like Bucky," Charlie complained.

"I'll teach you how to pitch when you're older, squirt," Bucky told his brother.

"How old?"

"I dunno… five?" Five seemed a good age to learn how to properly throw a ball.

"When can I be five?"

"In another two Christmases."

"But first," Dad said, "we've got Carol Service. Take some of these toys up to your room before they get stood on and broken."

"Bucky, will you help carry my toys to my room?" Charlie asked, clutching his new Buddy-Bear to his chest.

Bucky smiled at his little brother. "Of course I will."


	22. Second to the right

_22._ _Second to the right_

Steve lay steeped in misery. Every part of him itched, but his mom had cut his nails almost to the quick to stop him from scratching and making scars on his skin. It wasn't just the outside of his body that hurt, it was the inside, too. The chickenpox had spread to his mouth, so that his tongue and his cheeks were swollen with spots. Eating made the pain worse, so he mostly stuck to drinking water.

The door of his room squeaked open, and Mom popped her head around the frame. Her eyes were tired; long nights spent working the late shift at the hospital were punctuated by long days taking care of Steve, trying to coax him into eating something. For her sake, he tried, but chicken soup was the best he could manage.

"James is here to see you, honey," she said. "I'll get the two of you some cookies and a glass of milk."

"Thanks Mom," he croaked.

His mom's blonde head was replaced by Bucky, who offered Steve a sympathetic smile as he slipped into the room carrying his bulging school bag. Bucky's chickenpox had faded almost a week ago; the red blemishes on his face were almost nonexistent, now.

"Hey pal," Bucky said. _Pal_. It was something the guys at the boxing club called each other, so Bucky had started using it too. "I've brought you some notes to copy, and some English homework."

An eager smile tugged at Steve's lips. Lying in bed, waiting for his pox to pass, was boring. He'd read all of his books at least once, and was thoroughly fed up of listening to the radio. Class work would be a welcome reprieve.

"Pull up a chair," he said, gesturing with his spotty arm at the stool near the foot of the bed.

Bucky settled down and opened up his school bag, pulling out books and papers as Mom returned with a huge plate of cookies and two glasses of milk. _Good for growing bones and growing bellies,_ she claimed. Bucky grabbed a cookie and stuffed it in his mouth, then pushed one on Steve, too. Steve nibbled, squirrel-like, letting the chips sit in his mouth until they melted. He washed each nibble down with a sip of milk, and hoped it would help his bones grow faster.

"Oh, I got you something else, too," Bucky said, once the cookies had sated his hunger. He reached into his bag and pulled out a book.

" _Peter and Wendy,"_ Steve read. " _By J.M. Barrie."_

"I checked your shelves the last time I was here, and you don't have it. Figured you might want something new to read."

"Bucky, this is amazing, thanks!" Steve grinned. For a brief moment, his misery was forgotten.

"'Course, you gotta let me read it when you've finished it, then we can talk about it."

"I will. I promise," Steve assured him. Once, he'd read books as an escape from his loneliness. Books were his oldest friends… but now he had new friends, to talk about his old friends with. And that was even better.

"Guess we should make a start on this English homework, huh?"

"Yeah. I don't wanna fall behind the rest of the class."

"Steve, your brain is huge," Bucky grinned. "You never forget anything the teacher says. Even if you were off for a year with the pox, you'd probably be way ahead of the rest of us."

Steve blushed faintly under Bucky's praise. It was true that he had a good memory, and his friends sometimes relied on him to fill in the gaps in their notes. Helping his friends with their class work was something he was happy to do. He finally understood what it meant to feel useful and needed.

The English homework didn't distract Steve from his misery as much he'd hoped. It was a boring comparison of tenses, and his eyes kept straying to the illustrated cover of _Peter and Wendy_. New books were rare, and he treasured them. Each new book brought new characters and new worlds, taking his mind to places he himself could never have conceived. Eventually, Bucky noticed his waning interest in their schoolwork.

"Y'wanna maybe read a page or two of the book?" he asked, a sly grin sliding across his face. He knew Steve couldn't resist. He also knew he wouldn't stop at 'a page or two.'

"Alright, you've twisted my arm," Steve sighed in dramatic surrender. "Maybe just the first chapter. If you've got time."

"I got all the time in the world, pal."

Steve slid over beneath his blanket. Bucky kicked off his shoes and hopped in beside him, fluffing the pillows up behind his back. They held the book between them, so they could both see the pages, and by the time Mrs. Barnes sent her husband to fetch Bucky home, they were four chapters in.


	23. Loves company

_23\. Loves company_

Bucky lay steeped in misery. His right ear hurt so bad he thought it might drop off. It itched and burned and ached deep inside, so deep that he couldn't scratch it to relieve the pain no matter how far he stuck his pinky finger in. And Mom had already taken the Q-tips away from him, out of fear he might burst his eardrum by sticking them in.

His ear infection wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was that it was a beautiful, sunny April day. Not a single cloud marred the perfect blue sky, and he could hear the sparrows chattering as they hopped across the roof of the house. Bucky was a prisoner, confined to his bed by a cage of pain and Mom's over-protectiveness.

Mom had tried everything to stop the pain. Warm olive oil drizzled in his ear to clear it out. A cloth of hot salt, to draw up the infection. Apple cider vinegar. Garlic oil. Basil. All that had done was make Bucky smell last night's dinner. Finally, Mrs. Rogers had talked Mom into calling out a physician. The man had dosed Bucky up with laudanum, which had made him sleep deeply for sixteen hours. He'd woken up in just as much pain as before.

His bedroom door opened to reveal Steve and his oversized school bag. Bucky offered his friend a weak smile, which Steve returned. Charlie always giggled when he saw Steve, because Steve's head looked too big for his body, like it might wobble off if he leaned too far to one side. Steve took Charlie's giggles and pointing in good humour.

"How's it going?" Steve asked, as he perched on the edge of Bucky's bed.

"I think I'm getting better," Bucky told him. "My nose isn't stuffy anymore. I think I'll be able to go back to school tomorrow."

Steve gave him one of _those_ looks. A Mom-look. A, ' _You Don't Fool Me, Young Man'_ look.

"You know you gotta stay in bed until the infection's completely gone, right?"

"Yeah," Bucky sulked. He hated being confined to his bed. There were so many other, _better_ things he could be doing right now. He could be at the park, practising his wind up. Coach said he needed to work on his wind up. Or he could be out at the dock, making a quick dime running messages between the ships and the warehouses. Or—

"I brought you something to cheer you up," Steve said, opening his school bag.

"It's not English homework, is it?"

Uncertainty ran fleetingly across Steve's face, and his hand hesitated in his bag. "Err, I brought _two things_ to cheer you up. One of them's English homework." Steve handed him his notes from class, along with his assignment from the teacher.

"Thanks," Bucky sighed. "What's the other thing?"

With a knowing grin, Steve pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it over. Inside was a large, round, strawberry jelly filled popover. The delicious smell assaulted Bucky's nose, which he'd stuck into the bag, and made his stomach rumble. It was great to smell something other than Mom's home remedies.

"My favourite!" Bucky smiled. "Do you want half?"

Steve shook his head. "I ate mine on the way over."

Bucky wasn't sure he believed his friend, but he ate the popover anyway, because it would be rude not to. After he'd licked the jelly off his fingers, he asked, "Are you gonna stay and help me with my homework?"

"Sure. Mom doesn't get home from the hospital until eight o'clock, so we've got loads of time to get it done."

Bucky nodded. "And you're sure you're feeling okay? No asthma problems? No chest infection? No cough or cold?"

"Sorry, but I'm fine," Steve said, a sympathetic smile on his lips.

"It's not fair. I wouldn't mind being ill if you were ill too, then we could at least stay off school together."

"I'll try my best to get a cold tomorrow," Steve assured him seriously. "But I can't make any promises."

"Thanks, you're a real pal." Bucky shifted over on his bed, to give Steve room to sit more comfortably. He didn't have to shift far; Steve didn't need much room. "So," he said, as he opened up his boring book of verbs and adjectives, "what gossip have I missed?"


	24. The Apple

_24\. The Apple_

Tired but in a good way, Steve trudged after Bucky and Tyler as they chatted animatedly about baseball. Every other Wednesday, it was the same. He joined Bucky and their friends at the baseball field with Mr. Barnes, to give Mrs. Barnes and the other moms a chance to play bridge in peace.

As he walked, he toyed absently with his catcher's mitt. Mom had bought it for him at the start of summer, when she found out he liked playing baseball after all. He hadn't liked it before, but then, he'd never had friends to play with before. In school, Coach always stuck him in outfield and left him there, but Mr. Barnes encouraged him to pitch and catch and bat. It made the game much more fun.

But it wasn't fair. Mr. Barnes was nice, but it oughta be Steve's dad doing these things with him. It oughta be his own dad encouraging him to try these things, and cheering when Steve scored a hit, even if the ball didn't travel very far.

"I think I'm gonna die of thirst," Davey gasped from behind. His large face was sweaty and red from all the running he'd done. Davey was very _good_ at hitting the ball. He hated it, because he hated running, but even when he tried to play bad, he scored home-runs. Coach loved him, and kept telling his mom to put him on a diet. Davey hated Coach, too.

"You know Mrs. Barnes will have some cold lemonade waiting for us," Mitch told him. "Mrs. Barnes makes the best lemonade."

"And the best apple pie," Bucky called back.

"I'm going to get lemonade first!" Mary-Ann rushed past the group, skipping up the path to the Barnes' front door.

"Nuh-uh, me first!" Johnny Delaney said, chasing after her. He was followed by Bingo, who almost bowled Steve over as he loped after the younger kids. Mr. Barnes brought up the rear of the group, carrying the solebaseball bat they all shared.

The group of moms were deep in conversation. Steve heard Mrs. Delaney's nasal tone as he stepped through the front door.

"...can't believe something like that could happen around here."

"Well, you know what they say: the apple never falls far from the tree. And his pappa was a trouble-maker, too, running off with that girl and leaving Mary-Lou to raise her kids alone." Mrs. Gray's voice was full of disapproval, and she disapproved of a great many things.

"It's the young ones I feel sorry for," Mrs. Barnes added. "I think one of them is in Bucky's class."

When Steve followed Bucky and Ty into the dining room, the moms all hushed up in that way only moms could.

Mr. Barnes picked up on it, too. Leaning against the door frame, baseball bat resting against his shoulder, he asked, "What's the word on the street today, ladies?"

"Tony Cavanagh," Mrs. Tarbuck sniffed. "Robbed Mr. Mueller's store—in broad daylight, no less!—and got himself sent down for two years."

"Don't the Cavanagh boys go to school with you, Bucky?" Mrs. Barnes asked.

Bucky stopped swigging his lemonade for long enough to answer. "Yeah. They're real trouble-makers." He thrust a glass of cold lemonade into Steve's hands. "Ain't that right, Steve?"

Steve nodded. "Mrs. Barnes? What does it mean when an apple never falls far from the tree?"

"Oh, you don't mind talk like that," Mrs. Barnes said. At the same time, Mrs. Gray—who prided herself on being a straight-talker, whatever _that_ meant—said, "It means that little boys grow up to be just like their fathers."

Was that true? Steve had never met his father. Mom told him stories, but not many. It made her sad to talk about Dad. If Steve didn't know what his father was like, how could he grow up to be just like him?

"Steve, why don't you kids go play in the yard with Bingo while we finish this game?" his mom said. "Once it's over, we'll head home."

They took Bingo into the back yard and spent a few minutes tossing a ball for him, watching him race between them in an effort to keep up with his elusive prey. But Steve's thoughts were on Mrs. Gray's words, and when Mitch threw the ball to him, he didn't see it fly through the air. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, rubbing at the lump forming on his head.

"Steve! I'm sorry," said Mitch. Guilt was written on his face. "I thought you were ready for it."

"It's okay," Steve said, pushing himself up, kinda wobbly on his legs. Not the first time he'd taken a blow to the head, but at least this time it hadn't been from Danny Cavanagh's fist.

"C'mon pal, let's sit you in the shade," said Bucky. He hauled Steve to his feet and settled him on the ground with the fence at his back. Instead of rejoining the Bingo-fun, he sank down beside Steve and asked, "What's on your mind?"

Steve took a swat at a nearby dandelion head. "Nothin'."

"Baloney," scoffed Bucky. "I can tell when you got something on your mind. Your forehead does that wrinkly thing."

"It does not!" Steve ran his palm over his forehead, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles.

"Does too. So, fess up already!"

"Well…" he teetered for a moment, then decided he could confide in his best friend. "About what Mrs. Gray said, about apples and trees. I never knew my dad. So, how can I grow up to be like him, if I never knew him?"

Bucky nodded in understanding of his dilemma. "I dunno, Steve. Maybe it's not a bad thing, though. Maybe you can grow up to be your own man."

 _His own man._ It sounded lonely. But then, maybe his dad had been lonely, too. Mom had told him that Dad was an only child. Had he grown up wishing for brothers and sister to play with, like Steve had? Or did he have good friends to keep him company?

"C'mon," said Bucky, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping him to his feet. "If your dad were here now, he wouldn't want you to mope around, would he?"

"I… guess not." Steve smiled. "Yeah. He'd tell me to have fun."

Sure, his dad was gone, but that didn't mean he wasn't still around. Mom could tell him stories, and Steve could imagine the sort of wise advice Dad would give. When it really came down to it, having a dad to give imaginary good advice was better than having a dad who robbed Mr. Mueller's shop and got sent to prison. In a way, he felt sorry for Danny and Sammy Cavanagh. At least Steve's dad was somebody he could still look up to.


	25. The Talk

_25\. The Talk_

Rosalie lifted her arm to wipe away a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead, then returned her full weight to the rolling pin. Today's batch of pastry just wasn't behaving properly, and she blamed the insufferable heat. One day, some brilliant mind would invent a way to quickly and efficiently make pies—and she couldn't wait for that day to arrive.

Just as she was finally taming the pastry into submission, Janet began to cry from her crib in the corner of the kitchen. A scream of frustration worked its way up from Rose's lungs, but she pushed it back down. Dusting off her hands on her apron, she abandoned the pastry and made her way to the crib of the hungry eighteen-month old.

Once Janet was fed and settled again, Rose dumped the failed pastry and started afresh. This time, it went better, and before long an apple pie was baking slowly in the oven. At that moment, she heard the front door bang closed, and the skitter of canine nails on hardwood that always denoted Bingo rushing to greet Bucky after he got home from school.

"Who's a good boy?!" Bucky asked the dog. Then, he called, "Hi Mom!"

"My son greets the dog before he greets his own mother," she called back in a teasing tone.

"Hi Mrs. Barnes," a quieter voice called. Steve's head appeared around the doorframe, his eyes scanning the kitchen worktops. "You're making apple pie?"

Steve might've been a little underweight for his age, but he did love his pie. Rose favoured him with a smile.

"That's right. I'll give you boys a shout when it's done."

Bucky's face appeared beside Steve's, a grin sliding across it. "Great, thanks Mom!"

As the boys disappeared towards the stairs, Rose turned her attention to the mound of dirty dishes her cooking had created. Suppressing a sigh, she hitched up the sleeves of her blouse and turned on the sink's hot water.

" _...asked if we wanted to hang out with them after school tomorrow,"_ Rose heard Bucky say, as he and Steve trekked up the stairs.

" _But they're boring!"_ Steve replied.

" _I think we just need to give 'em a chance. Besides, I think Lucy likes you."_

" _She does not! I saw her staring at_ you _during dodgeball. That's how she got hit on the head…"_

At the sink, Rose froze. It had finally happened. Her little boy was growing up and starting to notice girls. Thoughts that had once been consumed by baseball and boxing and playing make-believe with his friends, would now be filled by perfume and sweet smiles of the fairer gender.

She mulled over the best course of action to take as she washed the dishes, and finally decided this needed a man's touch. When she'd been around Bucky's age, her own Mama had taken her aside and given her _The Talk_ that all girls got from their mothers. One day, one day all too soon, she would have to give _The Talk_ to Mary-Ann, but it wasn't right that a boy hear certain things from his mom. And Steve didn't have a father-figure to take his cues from, so perhaps Cal could kill two birds with one stone.

At that moment, her husband sauntered in, a newspaper tucked under his arm. _Typical!_ Like most men, he had a habit of appearing once all the work was already done. Though, she had to admit, he did his fair share around the house, and spent as much time with the girls as the boys. Some of her friends' husbands seemed to think being a dad only applied to sons. Overall, Rose considered herself pretty lucky.

Cal took a seat at the table, glanced at the sleeping baby, then opened his newspaper to the crossword section. A pen materialised from somewhere, and he began his daily ritual of trying to complete the puzzle in under five minutes.

Eight minutes later, he asked, "What's a seven-letter word that means 'foot-pedal used to operate a spinning wheel'?"

"Treadle," said Rose, and Cal dutifully wrote it in. Rose suspected a woman wrote the crosswords. Every day, there was something in them that only a woman would know. It had stopped Cal from ever completing it in under five minutes.

"I think you should talk to the boys," she added.

Cal's gaze danced over the crossword puzzle, and the next clue in the list. "Hmm? Boys? Yes, I'll talk to them."

Rose clucked her tongue. "You don't even know what I want you to talk to them about!"

"Let me guess; Charlie lost Bucky's favourite baseball again?"

"I'm not talking about Charlie. I mean Bucky and Steve."

"Oh." Cal looked up, a frown creeping across his face. "They haven't been climbing Mrs. Lambert's apple tree again, have they?"

"No." Rose took the seat opposite her husband and leant forward, lowering her voice. "When they came in from school, I heard them talking about… girls."

Cal laughed—until Rose glared at him, and he promptly stopped. "It's natural for boys of their age to start noticing girls—and vice versa!"

"I know, but they're growing up so fast! Before we know it, they'll be courting, and getting married, and having children—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Rosie." Cal held out his hands as if expecting to physically stop her from running into him. "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself. You'll have your son for a few years yet, so don't go planning his wedding for him."

"I just want to be sure the boys know how to treat a girl right. Remember how Tommy O'Toole used to tease me on a daily basis? I don't want our boy to be the next Tommy."

Cal nodded. "Don't worry, we've raised him better than that. And yes, I'll talk to them both. Maybe Bucky won't feel singled out, if Steve's there."

"Thank you." Rose smiled. "The boys are upstairs."

"I'll handle it now, then we can all enjoy some of that delicious apple pie you've cooked."

He stooped to kiss her cheek on the way past, and Rose felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her children were growing up fast, but she would do everything within her power as a wife and mother to instill kindness and decency into them.

* * *

 _Author's note: Tune in next chapter for that awkward conversation._


	26. The Talk: Part II

_26\. The Talk: Part II_

Cal kissed his wife's cheek and made his way to the staircase. He offered her a reassuring smile, then let it fizzle away as he began the climb. This wasn't a conversation he'd been _dreading_ , but he wasn't sure of the best way to go about it. His own father had died when Cal was just eight years old, which left Uncle Ernest to give him _The Talk_.

Uncle Ernest had been something of an eccentric, and his talks were always… colourful. _The Talk_ had been no different. Cal had probably been the best-educated twelve year old in his whole school, at least as far as the topic of girls was concerned.

He didn't want to go into that much detail with Bucky and Steve. _Lead by example_. It was the ethic the army had ground into him, and the rule by which he tried to live. Children looked to their elders and mimicked behaviour whether it was desirable or not—the Cavanagh boys were proof of that. And Cal had done his best to ensure his boys had a respectable role model. He'd hoped that would be enough, but if talking to the boys would put Rose's mind at ease, who was he to argue?

At the top of the stairs, he knocked on Bucky's bedroom doom.

"Come in," his son called. "But watch out for the marbles."

Duly warned, Cal avoided stepping on the small, hard-to-see balls the boys were playing with, and took a seat on Charlie's bed. "Boys, come and sit down for a minute," he said.

Bucky and Steve shared a guilty glance before sitting side by side on Bucky's bed. They wore that butter-wouldn't-melt expression all children had mastered, which left Cal wondering what new trouble the pair of them had been getting into recently.

"Boys, we need to talk," he said. "About girls."

Bucky jumped right into defensive mode. "Whatever Mary-Ann told you, it's a lie."

"Your sister doesn't lie," Cal pointed out. "And this isn't about Mary-Ann."

"Oh. Good. 'Cos we didn't do anything."

He decided to let that one slide. He'd get the truth from Mary-Ann, later. "I want to talk to you about girls in general. More specifically, the birds and the bees."

Steve's watery blue eyes widened. "I'm allergic to bees, Mr. Barnes. I got stung by one when I was a baby, and my mom said I had an _Annie-fi-lattick_ shock. I nearly died!"

Bucky appeared troubled by the revelation. "I hope girls can't give us _Annie-fi-lattick_ shock."

Cal shook his head. Maybe the boys were too young for this, but he had to try. For Rose.

"It's a figure of speech," he explained. "When people talk about the birds and the bees, they're talking about men and women being in love and getting married and such. Now, it'll be a long time before either of you are old enough to get married, but between now and then you're going to meet a lot of girls, and some of them are going to be your friends, and others you might have… different… feelings for."

"Oh, we know all about that." Bucky's chest puffed up with pride at the secret knowledge he possessed. "Davey's brother kisses girls all the time." It was like watching a well-timed comic duo; both boys scrunched up their faces at the thought of kissing girls.

"Right. Well. Your mother and I want to make sure you know how to behave around girls," Cal continued. "When you're with a girl, you should always be polite. Open doors for them. If it's raining, offer your coat—"

"Wouldn't they have their own coats?" asked Steve.

"Maybe. But if they don't, it's polite to offer. Now, sometimes, you might think a lot about girls. Sometimes, one girl in particular will be on your mind all the time. And that's perfectly normal, and nothing to worry about. But even if a girl's on your mind all the time, you should still try to focus on other things, like your schoolwork and your boxing and such."

"Boxing's way more fun than girls," said Bucky.

"So's schoolwork," added Steve. And when Bucky gave him one of _those_ looks, he blushed and said, "I like learning new things."

"Can we finish our game now, Dad?" pleaded Bucky, employing his best puppy-eyes. "We promise we'll always be real polite around girls."

"In a moment." He was already in for a dime; might as well be in for a dollar. "There's something else I want you to know. When you're older, and spending more time with girls, there may be things you want to do that they don't—"

"Like boxing," nodded Bucky.

"And defending the Alamo," said Steve.

"And—"

"Yes, those things and _other_ things," Cal interrupted. Lord help the poor, clueless boys. "The important thing is that when a girl says 'no', you listen. You don't try to make her do something she doesn't want to do, or go somewhere she doesn't want to go."

"So… we should always do what girls say?" Genuine confusion was painted across Bucky's face. Steve's, too. Cal feared he was making a pig's ear of the whole thing.

"Well, you shouldn't let them boss you around," he explained, "but it's very chivalrous to defer to a woman's wishes. Girls like it when you make sacrifices for them and do the things they want to do."

"Like when we let Mary-Ann defend the Alamo that one time, when we were the Indians instead?"

Cal sighed. "Yes. Just like that. Anyway, I just wanted you to know these things before you start spending more time with girls who aren't your sister. Remember, always be gentlemen, focus on your schoolwork, and keep your noses clean."

Steve pulled a used hanky from his shirt pocket and held it proudly aloft.

"It was a figure of speech, Steve." Cal stood up from the bed and knuckled his back. "Right. I'm glad we had this talk, boys. If you have any more questions about girls, come and see me any time you like. I'll help in any way I can."

"Okay Dad," said Bucky. He picked up his bag of marbles. "Can we finish our game now?"

"Of course." His job was done, and it had gone pretty well. Rose would be pleased. He left the boys in peace, glad that they still possessed the innocence of youth.

* * *

Bucky tossed his marble and smiled in satisfaction as it knocked Steve's out of the way.

"Bit odd, that thing with your Dad, wasn't it?" Steve asked.

"Yeah. Not as informative as that talk your Mom gave us last year. I think he was a bit embarrassed."

"Do you think we shouldn't have pretended to play dumb?"

"Nah. Dad doesn't get embarrassed very often, it was fun to see him trying to think of what to say."

With a laugh, Steve rolled another marble.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks to LillyBrand for the prod!_


	27. Girls Are Confusing

_27\. Girls Are Confusing_

" _Girls like it when you make sacrifices for them and do the things they want to do."_

Mr. Barnes' words of wisdom echoed around the cavity of Steve's rapidly emptying head. It was Bucky's idea, to put his Dad's claim to the test, but every time Steve even _thought_ of talking to girls, rationality and common sense fled, leaving him feeling like a bumbling fool.

Because of that, Bucky had volunteered to go first. To pave the way, so to speak. Steve stood on the playground beside Bucky and Mary-Ann as his best friend squared his shoulders and headed towards his chosen girl, Nina. With perfect timing, he intercepted her right before she could reach the school's heavy front door and struggle to juggle her school books and her lunch bag to free up a hand.

"Here, let me get that for you, Nina," said Bucky. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

Nina smiled widely at him. "Thanks, Bucky!"

"Say, you wanna hang out for a bit after school? I could push you on the swing, if you like."

"Sure, that'd be fun. See you after Home Economics!"

Bucky gave Steve two thumbs up and rejoined them on the playground as Nina disappeared into class. "Alright Steve, it's your turn."

Gently nudged by his best friend, Steve stumbled forward. Several students were congregating around the front of the school, but it wasn't until he spotted Janey Wallace that his mouth went dry and his heart started fluttering like a rabid butterfly in his chest.

He glanced back at Bucky and was given a gentle 'shoo' motion. Beside him, Mary-Ann was sulking quietly for some reason.

Steve dashed forward and cleared his throat. That got Janey's attention. She glanced up at his approach, and slipped a blank mask over her face.

"Here, uh, Janey, let me get the door for you," he offered. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The door chose that exact moment to stick. Steve added his second hand and pulled harder. A hot flush crept across his face. The door was awkward. Everybody knew it. Sometimes, even teachers walked into it when it failed to open at a gentle push or pull.

It wasn't until Janey—whose hands were free—took ahold and added to the pull that the door opened, and it did so with such force that Steve went staggering back into Janey, knocking her to the ground.

"Oh my God, Janey, I'm sorry," he said. He moved to help her up, but she held up her arm to stall him. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine." She dusted off her skirt, then tutted when she spotted a small tear in the material. "This was brand new, my Ma's gonna kill me!"

"Oh. Err. Do you, uh, maybe want to hang out after school? I could swing you on the push. I mean, push you on the swing."

"Um, no. I think you've done quite enough pushing for one day, Simon."

She disappeared into the school, and he called after her. "It's Steve!"

He rejoined Bucky and Mary-Ann. "I don't get it," he said dejectedly.

"Girls sure are confusing creatures," Bucky agreed.

Mary-Ann merely snorted, and declared, "You two know _nothing_ about girls!" before storming off into the school. Steve wasn't going to argue; she was absolutely right.


End file.
